And gray, now night is here: nor will
Another torn red sunset come to pass.
And so I sit and turn the book of gray,
Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
All fearful lest I find some next word bleeding.
Nay, take my painted missal book away.
SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD
Between the avenue of cypresses
All in their scarlet capes and surplices
Of linen, go the chaunting choristers,