Around the corner, off the tracks,
And through the field of rye,
Good-bye, good-bye to honoured friends,
Not here, their saintly journey ends,
White eyes towards the sky.
Beyond the mountain, past the bridge,
And over ashen streams,
It seems to mean their time stands still
When misty signposts lean at will,
Against the hedgerow-seams.
Across the courtyard, through the gate,
And near the open door,
Before they poured the lamplight out,
Their eyes beheld, devoid of doubt,
A casket on the floor.
Behind the church, along the wall,
And underneath the ground,
A mound surrounds their journey’s end,
So gently burrow, favoured friend:
Read on, I’ll make no sound.