The Eve of All Saints - Cawein

THE EVE OF ALL-SAINTS

by Madison Cawein

1.

This is the tale they tell,

Of an Hallowe’en;

This is the thing that befell

Me and the village Belle,

Beautiful Aimee Dean.

2.

Did I love her?—God and she,

They know and I!

And love was the life of me—

Whatever else may be,

Would God that I could die!

3.

That All-Saints’ eve was dim;

The forest lay white

Under strange stars and a slim

Moon in the graveyard grim,

An Autumn ghost of light.

4.

They told her: “Go alone,

With never a word,

To the burial plot’s unknown

Grave with the grayest stone,

When the clock on twelve is heard;

5.

“Three times around it pass,

With never a sound;

Each time a wisp of grass

And myrtle pluck, and pass

Out of the ghostly ground.

6.

“And the bridegroom that’s to be

At smiling wait,

With a face like mist to see,

With graceful gallantry

Will bow you to the gate.”

7.

She laughed at this, and so

Bespoke us how

To burial place she’d go:—

And I was gald to know,

For I’d be there to bow.

8.

An acre from the farm

The homestead graves

Lay walled from sun and storm;

Old cedars of priestly form

Around like sentinel slaves.

9.

I loved, but never could say

Such words to her,

And waited from day to day,

Nursing the hope that lay

Under the doubts that were.—

10.

She passed ‘neath the iron arch

Of the legended ground,

And the moon like a twisted torch

Burned over one lonesome larch;

She passed with never a sound.

11.

Three times had the circle traced,

Thre times had bent

To the grave that the myrtle graced;

Three times, then softly faced

Homeward, and slowly went.

12.

Had the moonlight changed me so?

Or fear undone

Her stepping strange and slow?

Did she see and did not know?

Or loved she another one?

13.

Who knows?—She turned to flee

With a face so white

That it haunts and will haunt me;

The wind blew gustily,

The graveyard gate clanged tight.

14.

Did she think it me or—what,

Clutching her dress?

Her face so pinched that not

A star in a stormy spot

Shows half as much distress.

15.

Did I speak? did she answer aught?

O God! had I said

“Aimee, ‘t is I!” but naught!—

And the mist and the moon distraught

Stared with me on her—dead….

16.

This is the tale they tell

Of the Hallowe’en;

This is the thing that befell

Me and the village Belle,

Beautiful Aimee Dean.

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From Days and Dreams, 1891