Rupert Brooke

One night—the last we were to have of you— High up above the city’s giant roar We sat around you on the generous floor— Since chairs were lame or stony or too few— And as you read, and the low music grew In exquisite tendrils twining the heart’s core, All the conjecture we had felt before Flashed into torch-flame, and at last we knew. And Maurice, who in silence long has hidden A voice like yours, became a wreck of joy To inarticulate ecstasies beguiled. And you, as from some secret world now bidden To make return, stared up, and like a boy Blushed suddenly, and looked at us, and smiled.