Like pitter-patter of little feet
That come no more.

Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
Their tears are heavier than the clay,
But who is this at the threshold
So young and gay?

They are come from the land o' the young,
They have forgotten how to weep;
Words of comfort on the tongue,
And a kiss to keep.

They sit down and they stay awhile,
Kisses and comfort none shall lack;
At morn they steal forth with a smile
And a long look back.


ALL-SAINTS' EVE: LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

Oh, when the ghosts go by,
Under the empty trees,
Here in my house I sit and cry,
My head upon my knees!

Innumerable, white,
Like mist they fill the square;
The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight,
The shutter barréd there.