All-Souls

THE DOOR of Heaven is on the latch

To-night, and many a one is fain

To go home for one’s night’s watch

With his love again.

Oh, where the father and mother sit

There’s a drift of dead leaves at the door

Like pitter-patter of little feet

That come no more.

Their thoughts are in the night and cold,

Their tears are heavier than the clay,

But who is this at the threshold

So young and gay?

They are come from the land o’ the young,

They have forgotten how to weep;

Words of comfort on the tongue,

And a kiss to keep.

They sit down and they stay awhile,

Kisses and comfort none shall lack;

At morn they steal forth with a smile

And a long look back.