The Glass Hearse Poem by Denys E. W. Jones

I felt the sun that morn,
And the prick of a sharp thorn.
Why walked I too in the wake
Of a hearse all of glass made?

They were taking Annina away,
Early that sunny day.
By four black horses drawn,
No harness-bells, forlorn.

One dark Palermo night,
Me at her side, she died.
Outside a winter storm,
Then came first light of dawn.

A barracks close by lay,
But why too on that day
Were troops from slumber roused
By the sound of the reveille?

This was the very first day
She was not able to wake.


4/11/13