Giorno dei Morti

 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 womenfolk, 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.

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