Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave
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-
And men, coming and going on the earth.
THE PACIFIC, October 1913