A thin moon faints in the sky o’erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it’s turn of the year and All Soul’s night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
(from All Souls by Edith Wharton)
(photo taken at the glass blowing tent in the Maryland Renaissance Festival)