by Hartley Burr Alexander (1873–1939)
Winds of November whistling,—
Some ghosts be honest, some must thieve:
None saith, ‘An it please,’ or ‘By your leave,’
All Hallows eve.
Shrewd stars peer out until the skies
Are like a sieve that’s pricked with eyes—
Winds of November whistling,—
Some folk be bold, some keep their beds,
Taut coverlets about their heads:
Sooty the night and flecked and flawed
With bottle-greens and smouldering reds—
Winds of November whistling,—
Some folk, be brave and some be awed
When all the Hallows are abroad.
Dry gusts amid the crusty sheaves,
Topsy-turve of crinkling leaves—
Winds of November whistling,—
When husky voices are o’erheard
Twisting thoughts in ghostly eddy,
Hist eagerly each whispered word—
Winds of November whistling,—
Some souls be weak and some be steady;
Autumn liquor’s strong and heady,—
‘Tis the dead that are most ready.
All Hallows eve is a hoyden eve—
Winds of November whistling,—
Some ghosts be merry, some must grieve;
For him that’s sinned there’s no reprieve
All Hallows eve.
The Midlands, 1916
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