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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STALKING LEMURS by KAREN SWENSON SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER by ROBERT BROWNING TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM by JOHN DRYDEN HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 1 by EZRA POUND IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 104 by ALFRED TENNYSON |