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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.
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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.
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-- 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.

by Rupert Brooke
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