RUPERT BROOKE (1887-1915)




Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire

Of watching you; and swing me suddenly

Into the shade and loneliness and mire

Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,

One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,

See a slow light across the Stygian tide,

And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,

And tremble. And I shall know that you have died.

And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,

Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,

Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam -

Most individual and bewildering ghost! -

And turn, and toss your brown delightful head

Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.