WILD and wan, and chill, It is the Feast of Souls! A cold grey cloud For sheet and shroud Wraps God's Acre on the hill, Where the folded dead lie still— It is the Feast of Souls! The twinkling grave-lights shine Upon the steep hillside, As though night shed Above the dead Her stars for tears, and kind hands twine Emblem, wreath, and funeral vine Upon the steep hillside. With consecrated flame Each sepulchre is lit, And hung with thought Of flowers caught In bronze or marble. Each can claim Some share in memory or fame, Each sepulchre is lit. What of the homeless dead? What of the nameless ones Who knew no bier, No tender tear, Whose far, unechoing footsteps led From birth to death uncomforted— What of the nameless ones? Ah! thoughts are dedicate To-day to those unknown. One, worn with life, Distress and strife, As they were, and as desolate, Stands shuddering, compassionate, And in their dark and silent fate Anticipates his own. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW TO BE A POET (TO REMIND MYSELF) by WENDELL BERRY THE SMALLISH SON by HAYDEN CARRUTH BIRTHDAY POEM FOR THOMAS HARDY by CECIL DAY LEWIS HOMING BRAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON RETROSPECT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WE FACE THE FUTURE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON NOBODY'S LOOKIN' BUT DE OWL AND DE MOON (A NEGRO SERENADE) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |