< Wessex Poems and Other Verses
SHE
at his funeral
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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