(Suggested by some of the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research)


Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, 
We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread 
Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead 
Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run 
Down some close-covered by-way of the air,
Some low sweet alley between wind and wind, 
Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find 
Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there 

Spend in pure converse our eternal day; 
Think each in each, immediately wise;
Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say 
What this tumultuous body now denies; 
And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; 
And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

Added: Mar 15 2005 | Viewed: 445 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Rupert Brooke
Poem: Sonnet

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