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...THE WOMEN WITH FABLED HAIR by MADELINE DEFREES RETURN (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN 'DESIGNING A CLOAK TO CLOAK HIS DESIGNS' YOU WRESTED FROM OBLIVION by MARIANNE MOORE HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 10 by EZRA POUND IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET (DE VOLTAIRE) by EZRA POUND THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |