All Saints

Whisper your sorrow, sing naught of your shade,

Lest tears beckon welcome to notes of the grave.

Quiet all fear, through this night, be still,

Stir nothing from rest that would visit you ill.

Claim childhood made clumsy feet on the stair,

A tumble, no more, and that lost hank of hair

Pulled only in fun, for we are all glee,

With mischief abound, at our daddy's knee.