Lonely Burial by Stephen Vincent Benet — Read

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.