​CLOUDS

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.

The Pacific, October 1913