Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/94

 And dead soft fingers thrilled;

And the little gods whispered. . ..

But ever

Desperately I willed;

Till all grew soft and far

And silent. ..

And suddenly

I found you white and radiant,

Sleeping quietly,

Far out through the tides of darkness.

And I there in that great light

Was alone no more, nor fearful;

For there, in the homely night,

Was no thought else that mattered,

And nothing else was true,

But the white fire of moonlight,

And a white dream of you.