Stony fields and lonely roads, Meagre hamlets, very lean, And most prosperous graveyards Lying all between. Each few miles a graveyard, With its crouching column And its urns and headstones, Very dark and solemn. But with what an accent! Yellow, purple, red, Lie the votive offerings To this public dead. Close beside the railway, Where the smoke drifts high, These are decked in garlands For the passerby. Even in the winter, Breaking through the snow Immortelles beguile us, When the train runs slow. They are strangely cheerful, All these plots of ground That have lost the loneliness Of the living. Here abound In a comradeship increasing Those who in their hour Reaped a dreary harvest, Missed a magic flower. Over them the smoke-wreaths, Snow, and whispering grass, And the voice of neighbours, Sighing as they pass; While the urns of iron And the barbarous vases Chant a willing ritual To forgotten faces. So they sleep together, And their shades may say: "Wave to us, O restless traveller! We are glad to stay." |