My thoughts are now all deathly dark
In this November tide.
The Holy Souls, so sad and stark,
My mercy do betide.
They languish all in helplessness
No merit them to gain.
It would be horrid heartlessness
To pity not their pain.
Could we but hear their urgent cries,
Their suff’ring glance behold,
We might recall the mystic ties
That us to them do hold.
But faith divine and Catholic
Does bring them to our mind.
Taught by a creed apostolic,
We are not to them blind.
Our mother Church bids us to pray
In this the month of death,
Poor souls to bring to light of day,
To breathe the quick’ning breath.
As last leaves from the Maples fall
In our New England town,
The thought that there’s an end of all
Does not our sense astound.
How fit it is that at this time
Of year when all turns grim,
We pray to expiate their crime
The somber Requiem.
To all my dear departed ones
On Purgatory’s way,
You have my prayers and oblations
On each November day.
When darkness fades into the Light
Of God’s own Vision blest,
Please pray for me, that I, too, might
Share in your happiness.
