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