Classic Poem

In the grounds of the Villa Capouana where now,
By municipal order, is a vast cemetery,
The noble and good rest in row after row,
But a single great grave, far more spacious and airy,

Is allotted to those so unwise as to die
Or be killed out of spite in the late revolution.
Here they lie in a heap underneath the blue sky,
A heap of white bones in a mixed distribution.

What excellent playthings! Giannina has wound
A thigh-bone in bright purple rags. “This,” says she,
“Is Brighella.” And Tito, having pulled from the mound

A great hollow skull, gathers violets and yew
To put round its head. “See, a King, now he's crowned,
And the King asks Brighella to a monster review.”

So the children set arms, fingers, jaws, in platoon,
And play soldiers and kings all the long afternoon.