The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

Clouds

   Down 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.

   The Pacific, October 1913