Last night I watched for Death—
So sick of life was I!—
When, in the street beneath,
I heard his watchman cry
The hour, while passing by.
I called. And in the night
I heard him stop below,
His owlish lanthorn’s light
Blurring the windy snow—
How long the time and slow!
I said, “Why dost thou cower
There at my door and knock?
Come in! It is the hour!
Cease fumbling at the lock!
Naught’s well! ’Tis no o’clock!”
Black through the door with him
Swept in the Winter’s breath;
His cloak was great and grim—
But he who smiled beneath
Had the face of Love not Death.