 | 1. |
| 2. |
 | 3. |
|
|
|
|
| 4. |
| 5. |
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
164
THE EVE OF ALL-SAINTS
I
This is the tale they tellOf an Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village belle,
Beautiful Amy Dean.
II
Did I love her? God and she,They know and I!
Ah, she was the life of me—
Whatever else may be
Would God that I could die!
III
That Hallowe'en was dim;The frost lay white
Under strange stars and a slim
Moon in the graveyard grim,
Pale with its slender light.
165
IV
They told her: “Go alone,With never a word,
To the burial-plot's unknown
Grave with the oldest stone,
When the clock on twelve is heard.
V
“Three times around it pass,With never a sound;
Each time a wisp of grass
And myrtle pluck; then pass
Out of the ghostly ground.
VI
“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.”
VII
She laughed at this and soBespoke us how
To the burial-place she'd go.—
And I was glad to know,
For I'd be there to bow.
166
VIII
An acre from the farmThe village dead
Lay walled from sun and storm;
Old cedars, of priestly form,
Waved darkly overhead.
IX
I loved; but never could sayThe words to her;
And waited, day by day,
Nursing the hope that lay
Under the doubts that were.—
X
She passed 'neath the iron archOf the legended ground;—
And the moon, like a twisted torch,
Burned over one lonesome larch;—
She passed with never a sound.
XI
Three times the circle traced;Three times she bent
To the grave that the myrtle graced;
Three times—then softly faced
Homeward and slowly went.
167
XII
Had the moonlight changed me so?Or fear undone
Her stepping soft and slow?
Did she see and did not know?
Or loved she another one?
XIII
Who knows?—She turned to fleeWith a face so white
It haunts and will haunt me:—
The wind blew gustily:
The graveyard gate clanged tight.
XIV
Did she think it I or—what,Clutching her dress?
Her face so wild that not
A star in a stormy spot
Shows half so much distress.
XV
I spoke; but she answered naught.“Amy,” I said,
“'Tis I!”—as her form I caught . . .
Then laughed like one distraught,
For the beautiful girl was dead! . . .
168
XVI
This is the tale they tellOf that Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village belle,
Beautiful Amy Dean.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |