This is the village where the funeral Stilted its dusty march over deep ruts Up the hillside covered with queen's lace To the patch of weeds known finally to all. Of her virtues large tongues were loud As I, a stranger, trudged the streets Gay with huckerstering: loud whispers from a few Sly wags who squeezed a humor from the shroud. For this was death. I should never see these men again And yet, like the swiftness of remembered evil -- An issue for conscience, say -- The cold heart of death was beating in my brain: A new figuration of an old phenomenon. This is the village where women walk the streets Selling eggs, breasts ungathered, hands like rawhide; Of their virtues the symbol can be washtubs But when they die it is a time of singing, ]And then the symbol changes with change of place. Let the wags wag as the pall-bearers climb the hill. Let a new slab look off into the sunset: The night drops down with sullen grace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...KATHLEEN O'MORE by GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS I SIT AND LOOK OUT by WALT WHITMAN THE DEPARTURE OF PIERROTT by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: MACROMICROS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON EPITAPH ON A SUICIDE by ROBERT BURNS THE ADIEU; WRITTEN .. THE IMPRESSION AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |