Giorno Dei Morti Poem by David Herbert Lawrence

Giorno Dei Morti

Rating: 2.7


Along the avenue of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
Of linen, go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . .

And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

The coming of the chanting choristers
Between the avenue of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Fabrizio Frosini 20 May 2016

Giorno Dei Morti = All Souls' Day

9 0 Reply
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
David Herbert Lawrence

David Herbert Lawrence

Nottinghamshire / England
Close
Error Success