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Rupert Brooke - The Vision Of The Archangels
Work rating: Low

Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world,
 Trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky,
Bearing, with quiet even steps, and great wings furled,
 A little dingy coffin; where a child must lie,
It was so tiny.  (Yet, you had fancied, God could never
 Have bidden a child turn from the spring and the sunlight,
And shut him in that lonely shell, to drop for ever
 Into the emptiness and silence, into the night. . . .)

They then from the sheer summit cast, and watched it fall,
 Through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin — and therein
 God`s little pitiful Body lying, worn and thin,
And curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower-petal —
Till it was no more visible; then turned again
With sorrowful quiet faces downward to the plain.
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