along the avenue of cypresses

all in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices

of linen go the chanting 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-scarved 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 hands;

and at the foot of a grave a mother kneels

with pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

the coming of the chanting choristers

between the avenue of cypresses,

the silence of the many villagers,

the candle-flames beside the surplices.