by A.F. Murray

A gypsy flame is on the hearth,
Sign of this carnival of mirth.
    Through the dun fields and from the glade
    Flash merry folk in masquerade—
        It is the witching Hallowe'en.

Pale tapers glimmer in the sky,
The dead and dying leaves go by;
    Dimly across the faded green
    Strange shadows, stranger shades, are seen—
        It is the mystic Hallowe'en.

Soft gusts of love and memory
Beat at the heart reproachfully;
    The lights that burn for those who die
    Were flickering low, let them flare high—
        It is the haunting Hallowe'en.

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