by: Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
POEMS BY RUPERT BROOKE
the blue night the unending columns press
- In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
- Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
- Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
- Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
- And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
- As who would pray good for the world, but know
- Their benediction empty as they bless.
- They say that the Dead die not, but remain
- Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
- I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
- In wise majestic melancholy train,
- And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
- And men, coming and going on the earth.