Chapter 19
Clouds by Rupert Brooke Read for LibriVox by Peter Yersley 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, comrade-less, 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 airs 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
