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