All in their scarlet² cloaks, and surplices

     Of linen³ go the chanting choristers,

     The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

 

     And all along the path to the cemetery⁴

     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.

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