Between the avenues of cypresses, 
All in their scarlet cloaks, 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-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 woman kneels 
With pale shut face, and neither hears not feels 

The coming of the chaunting choristers 
Between the avenues of cypresses, 
The silence of the many villagers, 
The candle-flames beside the surplices.