Rupert Brooke
HANDS and lit faces eddy to a line;  
 The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.  
Beyond the great-swung arc o’ the roof, divine,  
 Night, smoky-scarv’d, with thousand coloured eyes  
 
Glares the imperious mystery of the way.        
 Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train  
Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,  
 Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again.…  
 
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,  
 Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;      
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,  
 Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move  
 
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;  
 And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,  
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,    
 Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,  
 
Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,  
 Out of the fire, out of the little room.…  
—There is an end appointed, O my soul!  
 Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom
 
Is hung with steam’s far-blowing livid streamers.  
 Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,  
Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.  
 The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.  
 
And lips and laughter are forgotten things.      
 Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,  
The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.  
 The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
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