To their gray bough of stone,
Sometimes by twos and threes, sometimes as many as five—
But always they sit there on the narrow coping
Bright-eyed and solemn, scarcely hoping
To see more than what is merely moving and alive....
They hear the couples pass; the lisp of happy feet
Increases and the night grows suddenly sweet....
Before the quiet church that smells of death
They sit.
And Life sweeps past them with a rushing breath