The poem
Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place Made fair by one another for a while. Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace; The long road then, unlit by your faint smile. Ah! the long road! and you so far away! Oh, I'll remember! but ... each crawling day Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.
...Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere, The desert's edge, last of the lands we know, Some gaunt eventual limit of our light, In which I'll find you waiting; and we'll go Together, hand in hand again, out there, Into the waste we know not, into the night?
I read this poem at my neighbor's funeral; he, alas, was a suicide. But you know, the theme of travelers whose roads have coincided for some length of time, and then diverge, was just right for the occasion. Brooke wrote a lot of death poems, but this temporary separation one was more hopeful to the grieving family and community of guilt that suicide leaves behind.