Flowers are words which even a babe may understand.
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE, The Singing of Birds
'Tis the night--the night
Of the grave's delight,
And the warlocks are at their play!
Ye think that without,
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they--it is they!
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE, Halloween: A Romaunt
The spirits are pulling the sere dry leaves
Of the shadowy forest down;
And howl the gaunt reapers that gather the sheaves,
With the moon, o'er their revels, to frown:
To-morrow ye'll find all their spoils in your path,
And ye'll speak of the wind and the sky;
But oh could ye see them tonight, in their wrath,
I ween ye'd be frenzied of eye!
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE, Halloween: A Romaunt
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