La Toussaint by Frederic Manning — Read

The wind wails overhead, / With a grieving sore; / And the little souls of the dead / Beat on the door.

Crying: Light and a fire, / We have travelled far / Over the plowed fields' mire.

Will ye lift the bar?

Would ye have us go all night / On the windy ways, / Who were strong men once in the light / Of our own days?

Ours are the fields ye plow, / And ye sow our wheat: / Let us stretch our hands to the glow / Of the warm, red peat.

We, who have lain in earth / For a long dark year, / Crave for our own old hearth, / And ye will not hear.