The cats are yowling on the churchyard fence,
their eyes like yellow lanterns o'er the gate;
And anyone who had a lick of sense
would be on his way home--it's getting late.
The bats are circling there like windblown leaves
before the thunderstorm; the autumn moon
becomes a jewel of blood. No one believes
the dead are restful now, or will be soon.
The steeple clock tolls like a funeral bell
and on the path twigs snap where no man treads;
the tombstones stretch like angels out of Hell
and shadows flutter wraith-like round their heads.
So shut your eyes and hold your breath and pray
for one more hour, and dawn, and All Saints' Day.
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