They bear him to his resting-place–In slow procession sweeping by;I follow at a stranger’s space;His kindred they, his sweetheart I.Unchanged my gown of garish dye,Though sable-sad is their attire;But they stand round with griefless eye,Whilst my regret consumes like fire! Thomas Hardy 1840 – 1928  *** Funérailles On l’emporte à son…