THEY are chanting now the service of All the
Dead
And the
village folk outside in the burying ground
Listen — except those who
strive with their dead,
Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite
to
touch
them:
Those
villagers isolated at the grave
Where the candles burn in the daylight, and
the
painted
wreaths
Are
propped on end, there, where the mystery
starts.
The naked candles burn on every grave.
On your grave, in England,
the weeds grow.
But I am your naked candle burning,
And that is not your grave,
in England,
The
world is your grave.
And my naked body standing on your
grave
Upright
towards heaven is burning off to you
Its flame of life, now and always, till the
end.
It is my offering to you; every day is All
Souls’
Day.
I forget you, have forgotten you.
I am busy only at my
burning,
I am busy
only at my life.
But my feet are on your grave, planted.
And when I lift my face, it
is a flame that goes up
To the other world, where you are
now.
But I am not
concerned with you.
I have forgotten you.
I am a naked candle burning on your grave.