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Rupert Brooke - The Song Of The Pilgrims
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(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.
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