All Souls - Edith Wharton 1903

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.