One sweeps by, attended by an immense train,
All emblematic of peace—not a soldier or menial
among them.
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One sweeps by, old, with black eyes, and profuse
white hair,
He has the simple magnificence of health and
strength,
His face strikes as with flashes of lightning whoever
it turns toward.
Three old men slowly pass, followed by three others,
and they by three others,
They are beautiful—the one in the middle of each
group holds his companions by the hand,
As they walk, they give out perfume wherever they
walk.
Women sit, or move to and fro—some old, some
young,
The young are beautiful—but the old are more
beautiful than the young.
What weeping face is that looking from the window?
Why does it stream those sorrowful tears?
Is it for some burial place, vast and dry?
Is it to wet the soil of graves?
