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Sleeping out: full moon |
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By Rupert Brooke |
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They sleep within. . . . |
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I cower to the earth, |
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I waking, I only. |
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High and cold thou dreamest, O queen, high-dreaming and lonely. |
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They sleep within. . . . |
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They sleep within. . . . |
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We have slept too long |
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Who can hardly win |
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The white one flame, and the night-long crying |
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The viewless passers |
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The world's low sighing |
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With desire, with yearning |
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To the fire unburning |
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To the heatless fire |
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To the flameless ecstasy! . . . |
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Helpless I lie. |
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And around me the feet of thy watchers tread. |
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There is a rumour and a radiance of wings above my head |
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An intolerable radiance of wings. . . . |
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All the earth grows fire |
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White lips of desire |
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Brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things. |
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Earth fades; and the air is thrilled with ways |
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Dewy paths full of comfort. And radiant bands |
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The gracious presence of friendly hands |
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Help the blind one, the glad one, who stumbles and strays |
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Stretching wavering hands, up, up through the praise |
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Of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries |
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To all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height |
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To the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes |
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And the laughter, and the lips of light. |