A Dead March

BE hushed, all voices and untimely laughter ;
Let no least word be lightly said
In the awful presence of the Dead,
That slowly, slowly this way comes —
Arms piled on coffin, comrades marching after,
Colours reversed, and muffled drums.

Be bared, all heads ; feet, the procession follow
Throughout the stilled and sorrowing town ;
Weep, woeful eyes, and be cast down;
Tread softly, till the bearers stop
Under the cypress in the shadowy hollow,
While last light fades o'er mountain top.

Lay down your burden here, whose life hath journeyed
Afar, and where ye may not wot;
Some little while around this spot
Be dirges sung, and prayers low said,
Dead leaves disturbed, and clammy earth upturned;
Then in his grave dead Love is laid.

Fling them upon him — withered aspirations,
And battered hopes, and broken vows;
He was the last of all his house,
Hath left behind no kith nor kin ;
His blood-stained arms and faded decorations,
His dinted helmet,— throw them in.

And all the time the twilight skies are turning
To sullen ash and leaden grey ;
Cast the sods o'er him, come away ;
In vain upon his name you call, —
Though you all night should call with bitter yearning,
He would not heed nor hear at all.

Pass homeward now, in musing melancholy,
To find the house enfilled with gloom,
And no lights lit in any room,
And stinging herald drops of rain ;
Choke up your empty heart with anguish wholly,
For Love will never rise again,