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/
