In the Museum of Sorrow stand
The marble dead on either hand:
Each seated formally on a chair
In profile, with a mild, blank stare.
Others come to bid good-bye,
To shake hands, turn aside and cry
Into the folds of cloak or sleeve;
A huntsman leaves a hound to grieve,
Its tail tucked under, ears drooped low.
Sisters, brothers, parents go.
And everywhere, that silent noise,
The votaries of children’s toys:
Clay dolls, tops with painted rings,
And four-wheeled horses pulled on strings.
Beyond the air-conditioned rooms,
The grassy suburbs of the tombs,
With tortoises humped here and there
Beside the foot-worn thorough-fare
They hunker on these patchy lawns
Like scattered helmets made of bronze,
The verdigris of ancient war.
A stream meanders as before
Through reeds and stone, steady as grief
And graving Time, its low relief.