Night Journey, The

Rupert Brooke

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.

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