There Were Not Many At That Lonely Place, Where Two Scourged Hills Met In A Little Plain. The Wind Cried Loud In Gusts, Then Low Again. Three Pines Strained Darkly, Runners In A Race Unseen By Any. Toward The Further Woods A Dim Harsh Noise Of Voices Rose And Ceased. -- We Were Most Silent In Those Solitudes -- Then, Sudden As A Flame, The Black-Robed Priest, The Clotted Earth Piled Roughly Up About The Hacked Red Oblong Of The New-Made Thing, Short Words In Swordlike Latin -- And A Rout Of Dreams Most Impotent, Unwearying. Then, Like A Blind Door Shut On A Carouse, The Terrible Bareness Of The Soul'S Last House.