THEY bear him to his resting-place—
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!
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Comments
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Brilliant
The first poem I've ever read by this well-known writer, but I'll be back for more.
I loved his style, and his use of the noun as an adjective (something I've noticed prevalent with Betjeman) - IE "a stranger's pace".
Short but brilliant.
Robin T. -
great thought
this poem is about the true love and the thing people call love.one can see what is the difference between the two.a beautiful poem
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