Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow

stillness is on the trees.

The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four

yellow ways,

saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl

of dust

blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to

do more;

it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl

of wind

comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and

feet.

The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post.

Wind again, wheels and feet louder. Wind again -- again

-- again.

A drop of rain, flat into the dust. Drop! -- Drop! Thick

heavy raindrops,

and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their

leaves.

Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain,

up Tilbury road,

comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for

the graveyard

at Wayfleet. Feet and wheels -- feet and wheels. And

among them

one who is carried.

The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There

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