Sad and quiet is the House of God,
Stillness holds all and is held there.
Only the old priest reads prayers from a book;
A lonely candle is dying fast.
From the walls the statues of gold
Look down with a wondering stare.
And on the stones, on the cold pavement,
What do I see?
A young, dead soldier resting in a coffin,
No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief;
Just a candle, dropping its wax-like tears,
And the stare of the statues,
And the priest saying prayers for the dead,
A last kiss beseeching for the dead orphan;
But none goes to kiss him. And no one will.
The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls.
(No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!)
This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?