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.
