I recall reading some Rupert Brooke that was more inspiring, though still sad. Poignant but not self-mutilating. Have to see if I can track it down, although I'm sure Jackie can find something to fit the bill.

Clouds seems to fit that description:

Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majeatic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.