There were not many at that lonely place,
Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race Unseen by any.
Toward the further woods A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased. — We were most silent in those solitudes — Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,
The clotted earth piled roughly up about The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,
Short words in swordlike Latin — and a rout Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,
The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.
