XIX.

In midnights of November,

When Dead Man's Fair is nigh,

And danger in the valley,

And anger in the sky,

Around the huddling homesteads

The leafless timber roars,

And the dead call the dying

And finger at the doors.

Oh, yonder faltering fingers

Are hands I used to hold;

Their false companion drowses

And leaves them in the cold.

Oh, to the bed of ocean,

To Africk and to Ind,

I will arise and follow

Along the rainy wind.

The night goes out and under

With all its train forlorn;

Hues in the east assemble

And cocks crow up the morn.

The living are the living

And dead the dead will stay,

And I will sort with comrades

That face the beam of day.