The damp descends on hallowed nightAnd children scurry into sight;The moon holds up its lamp of whiteTo guide their footsteps here.

Beneath their cloaks, the laughing jackalsLet loose their shrieks and witchlike cackles;Their bags bulge out with Mounds and KrackelsWhile crows look down and leer.

The clouds lean close above the streetTo watch the march of hungry feet;Their parents smile, discreet and neat,And willows shed a tear.

For we are leaves without a home,With none to mind us as we roam;They grind our ribs into the loamAnd never think to hear.

So children, you of any height,Who dress to dazzle or to fright,Walk softly on this hallowed nightAnd spare us all next year—We had no say in landing here.