I’d watched the sorrow of the evening sky,
And smelt the sea, and earth, and the warm
clover,
And heard the waves, and the seagull’s mocking
cry.
And in them all was only the old cry,
That song they always sing-The best is over.
Then from the sad west turning wearily,
I saw the pines against the white north
sky.
Very beautiful and still, and bending over
Their sharp black heads against a quiet
sky.
And there was peace in them; and I
Was happy, and forgot to play the lover,
And laughed, and did no longer wish to die;
Being glad of you, O pine-trees and the
sky!
Rupert Brooke
English 1887-1915
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