There was a damned successful Poet; <br /> There was a Woman like the Sun. <br />And they were dead. They did not know it. <br /> They did not know their time was done. <br /> They did not know his hymns <br /> Were silence; and her limbs, <br /> That had served Love so well, <br /> Dust, and a filthy smell. <br /> <br />And so one day, as ever of old, <br /> Hands out, they hurried, knee to knee; <br />On fire to cling and kiss and hold <br /> And, in the other's eyes, to see <br /> Each his own tiny face, <br /> And in that long embrace <br /> Feel lip and breast grow warm <br /> To breast and lip and arm. <br /> <br />So knee to knee they sped again, <br /> And laugh to laugh they ran, I'm told, <br />Across the streets of Hell . . . <br /> And then <br /> They suddenly felt the wind blow cold, <br /> And knew, so closely pressed, <br /> Chill air on lip and breast, <br /> And, with a sick surprise, <br /> The emptiness of eyes.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-men-s-love/
