| Rupert Brooke (1887–1915). Collected Poems. 1916. |
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| V. The South Seas |
| 13. Clouds |
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| 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, | 5 |
| And turn with profound gesture vague and slow, | |
| As who would pray good for the world, but know | |
| Their benediction empty as they bless. | |
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| They say that the Dead die not, but remain | |
| Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth. | 10 |
| 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. | |
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