There were not many at that lonely place, <br />Where two scourged hills met in a little plain. <br />The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again. <br />Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race <br />Unseen by any. Toward the further woods <br />A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased. <br />-- We were most silent in those solitudes -- <br />Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest, <br /> <br />The clotted earth piled roughly up about <br />The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing, <br />Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout <br />Of dreams most impotent, unwearying. <br />Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse, <br />The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.<br /><br />Stephen Vincent Benet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lonely-burial/
