Rupert Brooke
(A Memory)
Arthur Davison Ficke
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