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.by Stephen Vincent Benet
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts For The Lonesome
PoetryThis is part three of my "thoughts" series. Tale No One (Part 1) Thoughts Before Bed (Part 2) Thoughts for the lonesome (Part 3) No need to read them in order, just read what suits you best. Thanks for reading. Harry