poet Rupert Brooke

Rupert Brooke

#67 on top 500 poets


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.

Poem Submitted: Thursday, May 10, 2001

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Comments about Clouds by Rupert Brooke

  • s.vimal (7/28/2018 7:40:00 AM)


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  • DANIEL OLOTU (9/15/2016 7:54:00 AM)

    Add a comment I love this poem. finely put forth with the necessary low toned melancholy.i respect this man with his plain unsugared tale.stuffs rich poetry are made of.

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Read poems about / on: moon, grief, snow, heaven, world, night