LA TOUSSAINT

The wind wails overhead,

With a grieving sore;

And the little souls of the dead

Beat on the door.

Crying: Light and a fire,

We have travelled far

Over the plowed fields’ mire.

Will ye lift the bar?

Would ye have us go all night

On the windy ways,

Who were strong men once in the light

Of our own days?

Ours are the fields ye plow,

And ye sow our wheat:

Let us stretch our hands to the glow

Of the warm, red peat.

We, who have lain in earth

For a long dark year,

Crave for our own old hearth,

And ye will not hear.