Lonely Burial
There were not many at that lonely place,Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.Three pines strained darkly, runners in a raceUnseen by any. Toward the further woodsA dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.—We were most silent in those solitudes—Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,
The clotted earth piled roughly up aboutThe hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,Short words in swordlike Latin—and a routOf dreams most impotent, unwearying.Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,The terrible bareness of the soul’s last house.