by Rupert Brooke

    Mamua， when our laughter ends，

    And hearts and bodies， brown as white，

    Are dust about the doors of friends，

    Or scent¹ ablowing down the night，

    Then， oh！ then， the wise agree，

    Comes our immortality².

    Mamua， there waits a land

    Hard for us to understand.

    Out of time， beyond the sun，

    All are one in Paradise，

    You and Pupure are one，

    And Tau， and the ungainly wise.

    There the Eternals are， and there

    The Good， the Lovely， and the True，

    And Types， whose earthly copies were

    The foolish broken things we knew；

    There is the Face， whose ghosts we are；

    The real， the never-setting Star；

    And the Flower， of which we love

    Faint and fading shadows here；

    Never a tear， but only Grief；

    Dance， but not the limbs that move；

    Songs in Song shall disappear；

    Instead of lovers， Love shall be；

    For hearts， Immutability³；

    And there， on the Ideal Reef，

    Thunders the Everlasting⁴ Sea！

    And my laughter， and my pain，

    Shall home to the Eternal Brain.

    And all lovely things， they say，

    Meet in Loveliness again；

    Miri's laugh， Teipo's feet，

    And the hands of Matua，

    Stars and sunlight there shall meet，

    Coral's hues⁵ and rainbows there，

    And Teura's braided hair；

    And with the starred 'tiare's' white，

    And white birds in the dark ravine，

    And 'flamboyants' ablaze⁶ at night，

    And jewels， and evening's after-green，

    And dawns of pearl and gold and red，

    Mamua， your lovelier head！

    And there'll no more be one who dreams

    Under the ferns， of crumbling⁷ stuff，

    Eyes of illusion， mouth that seems，

    All time-entangled human love.

    And you'll no longer swing and sway

    Divinely down the scented⁸ shade，

    Where feet to Ambulation fade，

    And moons are lost in endless Day.

    How shall we wind these wreaths of ours，

    Where there are neither heads nor flowers？

    Oh， Heaven's Heaven！ —— but we'll be missing

    The palms， and sunlight， and the south；

    And there's an end， I think， of kissing，

    When our mouths are one with Mouth. . . .

    'Taü here'， Mamua，

    Crown the hair， and come away！

    Hear the calling of the moon，

    And the whispering scents⁹ that stray

    About the idle warm lagoon¹⁰.

    Hasten， hand in human hand，

    Down the dark， the flowered way，

    Along the whiteness of the sand，

    And in the water's soft caress¹¹，

    Wash the mind of foolishness，

    Mamua， until the day.

    Spend the glittering moonlight there

    Pursuing down the soundless deep

    Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair，

    Or floating lazy， half-asleep.

    Dive and double and follow after，

    Snare¹² in flowers， and kiss， and call，

    With lips that fade， and human laughter

    And faces individual，

    Well this side of Paradise！ . . .

    There's little comfort in the wise.

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