The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

The Night Journey

   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.