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 now with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.
They say 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.
from Fresh Fields Poetry Series – Longman Australian Edition
(Found by Imogen Crest in a roadside box of books with Enchanteur.)
(copyright Imogen Crest 2007.)