Across a million graves to the sordid bier
Where lay their love. She said: "We will bury it here!"
They laid it low,
They rode on, dispossessed.

And all around
Rose silent hills against the darkening sky,
Wave upon motionless wave.
The night wind made a mournful sound.
The woman turned: "It is lonely here!
I am afraid!" she said.
He made reply:
"What is there left to lose or save?
What is there left to fear?
Our hearts are empty. Have we not buried our dead?"
She said, "I fear the empty dark, be kind!"
He said, "I am still here, be comforted!"

Then from its shallow grave
Their love rose up and followed close behind.

The Picnic

Here they come, in pairs, carrying baskets,
Pale clerks with brilliant neckties, and cheap serge suits,
Steering girls by the arm, clerks, too,
Pretty and slim and smart,
Even to yellow kid boots, laced up behind.

They take the electric cars far into the country,