Along The Avenue Of Cypresses All In Their Scarlet Cloaks, And Surplices Of Linen Go The Chanting 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 Mother Kneels With Pale Shut Face, Nor Either Hears Nor Feels The Coming Of The Chanting Choristers Between The Avenue Of Cypresses, The Silence Of The Many Villagers, The Candle-Flames Beside The Surplices.