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 hands;

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.