Classic Poem

As I went out on All Souls' Night,
The wind struck with its fist
At the high trees down Old York Road,
And set them in a twist,

Above the sharp black of a pool,
Like a jagged piece of stone,
And in a moment let them go:
I heard each cracking bone.

And with that sound another sound,
As of a slackening rain,
Of apple-yellow leaves blown out
The corners of the lane.

Some, left behind, a dozen or more,
Kept dribbling through the dust,
With the dry noise of an old mouth
That munches at a crust.

The wind struck at Saint John's old gate;
It fell flat on the grass,
Cut through the middle. Half a moon
Crooked down as through a glass.

The gust ran in where lay the graves
Stretched eastward all about;
It split a score of them in twain,
And drove the Dead Folk out.