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Choriambics -- II

Written by: Rupert Brooke | Biography
 | Quotes (19) |
 Here the flame that was ash, shrine that was void,
lost in the haunted wood,
I have tended and loved, year upon year, I in the solitude
Waiting, quiet and glad-eyed in the dark, knowing that once a gleam
Glowed and went through the wood.
Still I abode strong in a golden dream, Unrecaptured.
For I, I that had faith, knew that a face would glance One day, white in the dim woods, and a voice call, and a radiance Fill the grove, and the fire suddenly leap .
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and, in the heart of it, End of labouring, you! Therefore I kept ready the altar, lit The flame, burning apart.
Face of my dreams vainly in vision white Gleaming down to me, lo! hopeless I rise now.
For about midnight Whispers grew through the wood suddenly, strange cries in the boughs above Grated, cries like a laugh.
Silent and black then through the sacred grove Great birds flew, as a dream, troubling the leaves, passing at length.
I knew Long expected and long loved, that afar, God of the dim wood, you Somewhere lay, as a child sleeping, a child suddenly reft from mirth, White and wonderful yet, white in your youth, stretched upon foreign earth, God, immortal and dead! Therefore I go; never to rest, or win Peace, and worship of you more, and the dumb wood and the shrine therein.



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