mournful morning

There is no point of reference here
No star to guide us through this sphere;
Our sight diminished, not by glaring sun
Reaching to the heart of where we began,
But by the dark and mist that bounds
The relentless shift of horses
Muffled hooves beating on the ground,
And soft veiled muttering voices
Of the shuffling throng gathered there
Who watch the passage of the bier
Chanting their hymns with solemn cheer
Burdened by their fetid air.

fog
be of good cheer