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The Wayfarers
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
   Made fair by one another for a while.
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace;
   The long road then, unlit by your faint smile.
Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
Oh, I'll remember! but . . . each crawling day
Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile
   Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.
. . . Do you think there's a far bordered town, somewhere,
   The desert's edge, last of the lands we know,
      Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,
   In which I'll find you waiting; and we'll go
Together, hand in hand again, out there,
   Into the waste we know not, into the night?


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