He wakes, who never thought to wake again, <br />Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes <br />Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain <br />Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. <br />He lies; <br />And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise <br />Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand, <br />Like a dry branch. No life is in that land, <br />Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries; <br />An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck <br />Of moveless horror; an Immortal One <br />Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly <br />Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse’s neck. <br /> <br />I though when love for you died, I should die. <br />It’s dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-life-beyond/
