Dear Nicole,
My choice of poem for your compilation would be Rupert Brooke’s “Clouds.” I haven’t got a copy of it on hand, but you shouldn’t have any trouble tracking it down. Please do forgive me for not finding it myself; things are a bit hectic at the moment and I am leaving to do some research in the Arctic tomorrow. The opening line of the poem is “Down the blue night the unending columns press.” Rupert Brooke was an Englishman who died during the First World War. He writes with innocence and beauty which I believe were permanently extinguished by that war, and that makes his words all the more poignant to me. “Clouds” was the first poem I ever voluntarily memorized, so it has always been a favorite of mine.
Best of luck with your project. It truly is a worthy cause.
Yours —
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 comrade less,
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.
— Rupert Brooke
