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 anguish¹, yet unable quite to
         touch them:
     Those villagers isolated² at the grave
     Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the
         painted wreaths
     Are propped³ 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,
&n............