Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the
breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the
grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that
grope —
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All
Souls’ night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can
smite.