There is the solitude of gypsy tents,
Abandoned fires and forgotten graves;
The solitude of clangorous conclaves
Of rooks when night is gray in cerements:
And then the silence death left desolate,
The candle in a stupor, the locked gate.

You, who have broken bread with beauty, know
The lonely grandeur of departed feet;
They pulse against the traffic of the street,
You hear their music through the blinding snow:
The passionate indifference of the dead
To all pursuit, the rich taunt of their tread.