Back to Index

The Vision of the Archangels

by Rupert Brooke, 1916

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 flowerpetal—
Till it was no more visible; then turned again
With sorrowful quiet faces downward to the plain.

Published in The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.