THEY bear him to his resting-place-- <br /> In slow procession sweeping by; <br /> I follow at a stranger's space; <br /> His kindred they, his sweetheart I. <br /> Unchanged my gown of garish dye, <br /> Though sable-sad is their attire; <br /> But they stand round with griefless eye, <br /> Whilst my regret consumes like fire!<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she-at-his-funeral-2/
