Poetry
Beware The Unhappy Dead !
BEWARE the unhappy dead thrust out of life unready, unprepared, unwilling, unable to continue on the longest journey.
Oh, now as November draws near the grey, grey reaches of earth's shadow, the long mean marginal stretches of our existence arc crowded with lost souls, the uneasy dead that cannot embark on the slinking sea beyond.
Oh, now they moan and throng in anger, and press back through breaches in the walls of this our by-no-means im- pregnable existence seeking their old haunts with cold ghostly rage old haunts, old habitats, old hearths, old places of sweet life from which they are thrust out and can but haunt in disembodied rage.
Oh, but beware, beware the angry dead.
Who knows, who knows how much our modern woe is due to the angry unappeased dead that were thrust out of life, and now came back at us malignant, malignant, for we will not succour them.
Oh, on this day for the dead, now November is here set a place for the dead, with a cushion and soft seat and put a plate, and put a wine-glass out and serve the best of food, the fondest wine for your dead, your unseen dead, and with your hearts speak with them and give them peace and do them honour.
Or else beware their angry presence, now within your walls, within your very heart.
Oh, they can lay you waste, the angry dead.
Perhaps even now you are suffering from the havoc they make unknown within your breast and your deadened loins.
D. H. LAWRENCE.
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