Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun, <br /> We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread <br /> Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead <br />Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run <br />Down some close-covered by-way of the air, <br /> Some low sweet alley between wind and wind, <br /> Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find <br />Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there <br /> <br />Spend in pure converse our eternal day; <br /> Think each in each, immediately wise; <br />Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say <br /> What this tumultuous body now denies; <br />And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; <br /> And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-suggested-by-some-of-the-proceedings-of-t/
