Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/63

 Their blood is wine along our limbs;

Their whispering voices wreathe

Savage forgotten drowsy hymns

Under the names we breathe;

Woven from their tomb, and one with it,

The night wherein we press;

Their thousand pitchy pyres have lit

Your flaming nakedness.

For the uttermost years have cried and clung

To kiss your mouth to mine;

And hair long dust was caught, was flung,

Hand shaken to hand divine,

And Life has fired, and Death not shaded,

All Time's uncounted bliss,

And the height o' the world has flamed and faded,

Love, that our love be this!