Service of All the Dead

Between the avenue of cypresses All in their scarlet capes and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers. And all along the path to the cemetery The round dark heads of men crowd silently; And black-scarfed faces of women-folk wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery. And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head and forgotten, folded hand; And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels With pale shut face, nor neither hears nor feels The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenue of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.