Stony fields and lonely roads,
Meagre hamlets, very lean,
And most prosperous graveyards
Lying all between.
Each few miles a graveyard,
With its crouching column
And its urns and headstones,
Very dark and solemn.
But with what an accent!
Yellow, purple, red,
Lie the votive offerings
To this public dead.
Close beside the railway,
Where the smoke drifts high,
These are decked in garlands
For the passerby.
Even in the winter,
Breaking through the snow
Immortelles beguile us,
When the train runs slow.
They are strangely cheerful,
All these plots of ground
That have lost the loneliness
Of the living. Here abound
In a comradeship increasing
Those who in their hour
Reaped a dreary harvest,
Missed a magic flower.
Over them the smoke-wreaths,
Snow, and whispering grass,
And the voice of neighbours,
Sighing as they pass;
While the urns of iron
And the barbarous vases
Chant a willing ritual
To forgotten faces.
So they sleep together,
And their shades may say:
"Wave to us, O restless traveller!
We are glad to stay."