Dora Sigerson Shorter, Irish poet, 1866 - 1918:
"All-Souls' Night"
O MOTHER, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread,
I prayed for his coming to our kindly Lady when Death's doors would let out the dead;
A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on,
I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon.
Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.
I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.
O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er,
Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more;
The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies
Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes;
I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb.
At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb.
Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.
His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.
Dora Sigerson Shorter
"The Fair Little Maiden"
THERE is one at the door, Wolfe O'Driscoll,
At the door, who bids you to come!
"Who is he that wakes me in the darkness,
Calling when all the world is dumb?"
Six horses has he to his carriage,
Six horses blacker than the night,
And their twelve red eyes in the shadows--
Twelve lamps he carries for his light;
His coach is a hearse black and mouldy,
Within a coffin open wide:
He asks for you soul, Wolfe O'Driscoll,
Who doth call at the door outside.
"Who let him thro' the gates of my gardens,
Where stronger bolts have never been?"
The father of the fair little maiden
You drove to her grave deep and green.
"And who let him pass through the courtyard,
Loosening the bar and the chain?"
Who but the brother of the maiden
Who lies in the cold and the rain?
"Then who drew the bolts at the portal,
And into my house bade him go?"
The mother of the poor young maiden
Who lies in her youth all so low.
"Who stands, that he dare not enter,
The door of my chamber, between?"
O, the ghost of the fair little maiden
Who lies in the churchyard green.
Dora Sigerson Shorter
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