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by Rupert Brooke, 1916

As those of old drank mummia
  To fire their limbs of lead,
Making dead kings from Africa
  Stand pandar to their bed;

Drunk on the dead, and medicined
  With spiced imperial dust,
In a short night they reeled to find
  Ten centuries of lust.

So i, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,
  Stuffed love's infinity,
And sucked all lovers of all time
  To rarify ecstasy.

Helen's the hair shuts out from me
  Verona's livid skies;
Gypsy the lips I press; and see
  Two Antonys in your eyes.

The unheard invisible lovely dead
  Lie with us in this place,
And ghostly hands above my head
  Close face to straining face;

Their blood is wine along our limbs;
  Their whispering voices wreathe
Savage forgotten drowsy hymns
  Under the names we breathe;

Woven from their tomb, and one with it,
  The night wherein we press;
Their thousand pitchy pyres have lit
  Your flaming nakedness.

For the uttermost years have cried and clung
  To kiss your mouth to mine;
And hair long dust was caught, was flung,
  Hand shaken to hand divine,

And Life has fired, and Death not shaded,
  All Time's uncounted bliss,
And the height o' the world has flamed and faded,
  Love, that our love be this!

Published in The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.