Between the avenues of cypresses, <br />All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices <br />Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, <br />The priests in gold and black, the villagers. <br /> <br />And all along the path to the cemetery <br />The round, dark heads of men crowd silently <br />And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully <br />Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery. <br /> <br />And at the foot of a grave a father stands <br />With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; <br />And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels <br />With pale shut face, and neither hears not feels <br /> <br />The coming of the chaunting choristers <br />Between the avenues of cypresses, <br />The silence of the many villagers, <br />The candle-flames beside the surplices.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/service-of-all-the-dead/
