This was the day the poets came
To the edge of the field at Slaughter’s Grave;
No one knew the prayer she sang
For the dead concealed without a name.

To hear what the poets sang in time,
Through the vines that sheltered in the shrine,
Beckoned to one who would have sang
A prayer to one, call out a name.

White coronation on a marble tomb,
Standing from decay the tangible gloom,
Enwrapping the voices of whispering grass,
Mapping the way to the monumental mass

Of poets gathered for odes of chanting,
Their hands held back, the dew grass panting,
To mark the time of the song they sang,
That touched the grave without a name.