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[377]
     Come from the shadow-lands,
From the dim meadow-lands
     Where the pale grasses bend
Low to our sighing.
     Come father, come mother,
Come sister and brother,
     Come husband and friend,
The dead to the dying,
     Come home!

We have opened the door
     You entered so oft;
For the feast of souls
     We have kindled the coals,
And we boil the rice soft.
     Come you who are dearest
To us who are nearest,
     Come hither, come hither,
From out the wild weather;
     The storm clouds are flying,
The peepul is sighing;
     Come in from the rain.
Come father, come mother,
     Come sister and brother,
Come husband and lover,
     Beneath our roof-cover.
Look on us again,
     The dead on the dying,
Come home!

We have opened the door!
     For the feast of souls
We have kindled the coals
     We may kindle no more!

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