Hallowe'en / Coningsby Dawson

Hallowe'en

Hark to the patter of the rain,
Voices of dead things come again:
Feet that rustle the lush wet grass,
Lips that mutter, "Alas! Alas!"
And shadows that grope o'er my window-pane.

Poor outcast souls, you saw my light
And thought that I, on such a night,
Would pity take and bid you in
To warm your hands, so palely thin,
Before my fire which blazeth bright.

You come from hells of ice-cold clay
So pent that, striving every way.
You may not stir the coffin-lid;
And well you know that, if you did.
Darkness would come and not the day.

Darkness! With you 'tis ever dark;
No joy of skyward-mounting lark
Or blue of swallow on the wing
Can penetrate and comfort bring
You, where you lie all cramp'd and stark.

Deep sunk beneath the secret mould,
You hear the worm his length unfold
And slime across your frail roof-plank,
And tap, and vanish, like the rank
Foul memory of a sin untold.

And this your penance in the tomb:
To weave upon the mind's swift loom
White robes, to garb remorsefully
A Better Life — which may not be
Or, when it comes, may seal your doom.

Thus, side by side, through all the year,
Yet just apart, you wake and hear,
As men on land the ocean's strum,
Your Dead World's hushed delirium
Which, sounding distant, yet is near.

So near that, could he lean aside,
The bridegroom well might touch his bride
And reach her flesh, which once was fair,
And, slow across the pale lips where
He kissed her, feel his fingers glide.

So distant, that he can but weep
Whene'er she moans his name in sleep:
A cold-grown star, with light all spent,
She gropes the abyssmal firmament.
He hears her surging in the Deep.

Ever throughout the year 'tis thus
Till drones the dream-toned Angelus
Of Hallowe'en; then, underground,
Unto dead ears its voice doth sound
Like Christ's voice, crying, "Lazarus."

Palsied with haste the dead men rise
Groaning, because their unused eyes
Can scarce endure Earth's blackest night;
It wounds them as 'twere furious light
And stars were flame-clouds in the skies.

What tenderness and sad amaze
Must grieve lost spirits when they gaze
Beneath a withered moon, and view
The ancient happiness they knew —
The live, sweet world and all its ways!

Ho, Deadmen! for a night you're free
Till Dawn leads back Captivity,
To make your respite seem more dear
Mutter throughout your joy this fear:

"Who knows, within the coming year,
That God, our gaoler, may not die;
Then, who'd remember where we lie?
Who then will come to set us free?
Through all the ages this may be
Our final night of liberty."

Aye, hoard your moments miserly.

*   *   *

And yet . . . and yet, it is His rain
That drives against my window-pane.
Oh, surely all Earth's dead have rest
And stretch at peace in God's own breast,
And never can retum again!

And yet . . .

~~
Coningsby Dawson (1883-1959)
from A Vision of Florence, and other poems, 1916

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Coningsby Dawson biography