Whene'er she moans his name in sleep:
A cold-grown star, with light all spent,
She gropes the abyssmal firmament.
He hears her surging in the Deep.
Ever throughout the year 'tis thus
Till drones the dream-toned Angelus
Of Hallowe'en; then, underground,
Unto dead ears its voice doth sound
Like Christ's voice, crying, "Lazarus."
Palsied with haste the dead men rise