Now, when the owl makes wild ado
With his sad tu-whit tu-who
'Tis the night for erie [sic] things,
When shadows from unearthly wings
Born in umbrageous solitude
Gloom the meadow and the wood.

But still around the rustic fire,
In spite of spirits dark and dire,
Is heard a joyful, frolic noise
Of half a score of girls and boys
Over the nut and apple games
Commingled with their mated names.

Others -- although the chimney roars
Its ancient welcome -- out-of-doors
Run to the oat stack or the barn;
Untwisting, some, a ball of yarn;
Or seeking in the spectral brook
Some telltale apparition's look.

No end of schemes were there of old
By which love's tender charms were told;
And still may fairies intervene
To bless the fates of Halloween.

Soul day, Soul day,
We be come a-souling.
Pray good people remember the poor,
And give us a soul cake.
One for Peter, two for Paul,
Three for him that made us all
An apple, a pear, a plum or cherry
Or any good thing to make us merry.

Soul day, Soul day,
We have been praying for the soul departed.
So pray good people give us a cake
For we are all poor people,
Well known to you before.
So give us a cake for charity's sake,
And our blessing we'll leave at your door.

Ho, ho, little folks,
Do not be afraid.
I'm jolly Jack-o'-lantern,
Out of a pumpkin made.
When I was just a pumpkin fat,
Out in the field I lay,
Until a little laddie came
And carried me away.
He cut a slit out for each eye,
Another for a nose,
Then carved a great big, grinning mouth
With teeth in funny rows.
He put a candle in my head,
And let the light stream through,
And said, "O Jack-o'-lantern,
Won't I have fun with you!"

To-night the witches will ride, will ride,
Each on her broomstick astride, astride,
Silent and swift in their mystic flight
Upward they'll go in the cold, black night.

And the wind will sob, and shriek, and moan,
The great trees shudder, and shake, and groan.
The moon will hide in the murky sky,
In the forest dark the bats will fly.

And owls will hoot, and wolves will howl
And green-eyed cats in the shadows prowl.
To-night the witches will ride, will ride,
Each on her broomstick, astride, astride.

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 barred there.

There walks one small and glad,
New to the churchyard clod;
My little lad, my little lad,
A single year with God!

I sit and hide my head
Until they all are past,
Under the empty trees the dead
That go full soft and fast.

Up to my chamber dim,
Back to my bed I plod;
Oh, would I were a ghost with him,
And faring back to God!

There's a funny little elf man,
In a funny peak-ed cap,
And he cuts such funny capers!
Such a merry little chap!
And he goes out on a frolic,
And he shakes his little wings,
When he thinks how very funny
Is the little song he sings!

"Halloween Night!
Halloween Night!
In the cold bright rays
Of the old moon's light,
Elf men and brownies!
No time to be lost!
We will frolic around
Till we freeze up the ground,
And the children will think
It's Jack Frost."

This is the tale they tell,
Of an Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village Belle,
Beauiful Aimee Dean.

Did I love her?-God and she,
They know and I!
And love was the life of me-
Whatever else may be,
Would God that I could die!

That All-Saints' eve was dim;
The forest lay white
Under strange stars and a slim
Moon in the graveyeard grim,
An Autumn ghost of light.

They told her: "Go alone,
With never a word,
To the burial plot's unknown
Grave with the grayest stone,
When the clock on twelve is heard;

"Three times around it pass,
With never a sound;
Each time a wisp of grass
And myrtle pluck, and pass
Out of the ghostly ground.

"And the bridegroom that's to be
At smiling wait,
With a face like mist to see,
With graceful gallantry
Will bow you to the gate."

She laughed at this, and so
Bespoke us how
To burial place she'd go:-
And I was gald to know,
For I'd be there to bow.

An acre from the farm
The homestead graves
Lay walled from sun and storm;
Old cedars of priestly form
Around like sentinel slaves.

I loved, but never could say
Such words to her,
And waited from day to day,
Nursing the hope that lay
Under the doubts that were.

She passed 'neath the iron arch
Of the legended ground,
And the moon like a twisted torch
Burned over one lonesome larch;
She passed with never a sound.

Three times had the circle traced,
Three times had bent
To the grave that the myrtle graced;
Three times, then softly faced
Homeward, and slowly went.

Had the moonlight changed me so?
Or fear undone
Her stepping strange and slow?
Did she see and did not know?
Or loved she another one?

Who knows?-She turned to flee
With a face so white
That it haunts and will haunt me;
The wind blew gustily,
The graveyard gate clanged tight.

Did she think it me or-what,
Clutching her dress?
Her face so pinched that not
A star in a stormy spot
Shows half as much distress.

Did I speak? did she answer aught?
O God! had I said
"Aimee, 't is I!" but naught!-
And the mist and the moon distraught
Stared with me on her-dead….

This is the tale they tell
Of the Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village Belle,
Beautiful Aimee Dean.

I would I had a rhyme wherewith to robe her-
The fair October!
But rhyme on rhyme my fancy vainly weaves:-
At hide and seek in her red realm of leaves.
I can not pain her melancholy, sober-
The glad October!

Even glad,
Though all the world's wan singers call her sad,
And sorrowful and wise,
While her complaining eyes
Droop in a mournful mist!
But I have seen her cheek, by sunlight kissed,
Wear the wild peach's bloom,
The while each wind-blown tress
Fell from her forehead, gleaming in the gloom
With unimagined light and loveliness!

Through dream-enchanted hours
Of summer, when for weariness the flowers
Sank from the fierce sun's sight
With thoughts of star-trysts in the cool twilight,
And dew-plashed bowers
Of unseen spirits of the violet night,-
Far off she felt the red rose at her lips,
And thrilled the thorn's blood to her finger tips;
The slow sap tingling through the veiny leaf;
The gold grain climing to the sunny sheaf,-
The breath and death of lilies-these she knew,

And in sweet secret places, under blue
And kindly skies,
With pity in her eyes,
Wrought golden vesture-silvered with sunrise,
To deck their death withal;
And many a coronal;
And fashioned her red leaves into sea-waves
To ripple round their graves!

Tears, but the light of tears!
A moment mourns she for the dying years,
Anon to race
Sylph-like through crimson woodlands, in the embrace
Of rival winds that toss about her face
Her shiny ringlets, clamoring to sip
The red wine of her lip!
And in the gathered glory of the day,
Wending her glorious and golden way
To gorgeous groves, rose-radiant with May!

I would I had a rhyme wherewith to robe her-
The fair October!
But rhyme on rhyme my fancy vainly weaves:-
In red recesses of her realm of leaves
I do not find her melancholy-sober,-
The glad October!

From out the wood I watched them shine,--
The windows of the haunted house,
Now ruddy as enchanted wine,
Now dark as flittermouse.

There went a thin voice piping airs
Along the grey and crooked walks,--
A garden of thistledown and tares,
Bright leaves, and giant stalks.

The twilight rain shone at its gates,
Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew;
And black in silence to her mates
A voiceless raven flew.

Lichen and moss the lone stones greened,
Green paths led lightly to its door,
Keen from her hair the spider leaned,
And dusk to darkness wore.

Amidst the sedge a whisper ran,
The West shut down a heavy eye,
And like last tapers, few and wan,
The watch-stars kindled in the sky.

Last spring I found a pumpkin seed,
And thought that I would go,
And plant it in a secret place,
That no one else would know,
And watch all summer long to see
It grow, and grow, and grow,
And maybe raise a pumpkin for
A Jack-a-lantern show.

I stuck a stick beside the seed,
And thought that I should shout,
One morning when I stooped and saw
The greenest little sprout!
I used to carry water there,
When no one was about,
And everyday I'd count to see
How many leaves were out.

Till, by and by there came a flower
The color of the sun,
Which withered up, and then I saw
The pumpkin was begun;
But oh! I knew I'd have to wait
So long to have my fun,
Before that small green ball could be
A great big yellow one.

At last, one day, when it had grown,
To be the proper size,
Said Aunt Matilda: "John, see here,
I'll give you a surprise!"
She took me to a pantry shelf,
And there, before my eyes,
Was set a dreadful row of half
A dozen pumpkin pies.

Said Aunt Matilda: "John, I found
A pumpkin, high and dry,
Upon a pile of rubbish, down
Behind that worn-out sty!"
O, dear, I didn't cry, because
I'm quite too big to cry,
But honestly, I couldn't eat
A mouthful of the pie.

The autumn wind-oh, hear it howl!
Without-October's tempests scowl,
As he troops away on the raving wind,
And leaveth dry leaves in this path behind,
Without-without,
Oh, hear him shout,
He is making the old trees bare;
Oh, cruel he,
To the old oak tree
And the garden hedges fair!
Oh, a wild and tyrannous king is he
When he playeth his frolic in every tree
And maketh the forest bare.

I know that a tyrannous rod is his
When he maketh the forest bow;
But worse, far worse are his tyrannies,
For he tameth the spirit now!
Without-without,
Oh, hear him shout,
October is going away!
'Tis the night-the night
Of the grave's delight.
And the warlocks are at their play:
Ye think that without
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they-it is they.

The spirits are pulling the sere dry leaves
Of the shadowy forest down;
And howl the gaunt reapers that gather the sheaves,
With the moon o'er their revels to frown.
To-morrow ye'll find all their spoils in your path,
And ye'll speak of the wind and the sky;
But oh, could ye see them to-night in their wrath,
I ween ye'd be frenzied of eye!

"Grinning mouth and eyes of red,
Glowing in an awful head;
Oh! I'm 'fraid to go to bed
With you near.
'Course I know you're not alive,
(But you see I'm only five),
And no matter how I strive
With my fear;
I can almost hear you say
In a scary kind o' way
'Little boy, you stop your play,
Come right here!'"

"If I came all knocky-kneed,
Shakin' like a little weed,
Just to satisfy your greed
With my head,
Would you hurt me, ogre-man?
(Yes, of course I know you can,
But it is a horrid plan.) . . .
Mother said
That you mustn't scare me so
For I watched you grow and grow
In the garden down below,
In a bed!"

The door of Heaven is on the latch
To-night, and many a one is fain
To go home for one night's watch
With his love again.

Oh, where the father and mother sit
There's a drift of dead leaves at the door
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.