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The Song of the Pilgrims

(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set,
they sing this beneath the trees.)

What light of unremembered skies
  Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
  Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .
  A certain odour on the wind,
  Thy hidden face beyond the west,
  These things have called us; on a quest
  Older than any road we trod,
  More endless than desire. . . .
                                   Far God,
  Sigh with thy cruel voice, that fills
  The soul with longing for dim hills
  And faint horizons!  For there come
  Grey moments of the antient dumb
  Sickness of travel, when no song
  Can cheer us; but the way seems long;
  And one remembers. . . .
                            Ah! the beat
  Of weary unreturning feet,
  And songs of pilgrims unreturning! . . .
  The fires we left are always burning
  On the old shrines of home.  Our kin
  Have built them temples, and therein
  Pray to the Gods we know; and dwell
  In little houses lovable,
  Being happy (we remember how!)
  And peaceful even to death. . . .
                                     O Thou,
  God of all long desirous roaming,
  Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,
  And crying after lost desire.
  Hearten us onward! as with fire
  Consuming dreams of other bliss.
  The best Thou givest, giving this
  Sufficient thing —to travel still
  Over the plain, beyond the hill,
  Unhesitating through the shade,
  Amid the silence unafraid,
  Till, at some sudden turn, one sees
  Against the black and muttering trees
  Thine altar, wonderfully white,
  Among the Forests of the Night.
Autres oeuvres par Rupert Brooke...



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