With her to compare     

       Are too little rare.     

  

       Though the grass yearns up to touch her feet,     

       She is loved for this—she is sweet, sweet, sweet.     

   

  

       HALLOWE'EN     

 Hark to the patter of the rain,  

       Voices of dead things come again:     

       Feet that rustle the lush wet grass,     

       Lips that mutter, "Alas! Alas!"     

       And shadows that grope o'er my window-pane.     

  

       Poor outcast souls, you saw my light     

       And thought that I, on such a night,     

       Would pity take and bid you in     

       To warm your hands, so palely thin,     

       Before my fire which blazeth bright.     

  

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