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. 

  

  

 ALL SOULS 

      THEY are chanting now the service of All the Dead And the village folk outside in the burying ground Listen—except those who strive with their dead, Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite to touch them:      Those villagers isolated at the grave Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the painted wreaths Are propped on end, there, where the mystery starts. The naked candles burn on every grave. On your grave, in England, the weeds grow. But I am your naked candle burning, And that is not your grave, in England, The world is your grave. And my naked body standing on your grave Upright towards heaven is burning off to you Its flame of life, now and always, till the end. It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls'          Day. I forget you, have forgotten you. I am busy only at my burning, I am busy only at my life. But my feet are on your grave, planted. And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes up To the other world, where you are now. But I am not concerned with you. I have forgotten you.       I am a naked candle burning on your grave. 

  

  

 LADY WIFE 

      AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner At the hearth; I know right well the marriage ring you wear, And what it's worth. The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed In his house awhile; So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happily Condescend to be vile. I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovely Angel in disguise. I see right well how I ought to be grateful,        

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