Again, his friend's death made the man sit still br and freeze inside—his daughter won first price— br his wife scowled over at him— br It seemed to be Hallowe'en. br His friend's death had been adjudged suicide, br which dangles a trail br br longer than Henry's chill, longer than his loss br and longer than the letter that he wrote br that day to the widow br to find out what the hell had happened thus. br All souls converge upon a hopeless mote br tonight, as though br br the throngs of souls in hopeless pain rise up br to say they cannot care, to say they abide br whatever is to come. br My air is flung with souls which will not stop br and among them hangs a soul that has not died br and refuses to come home.