Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By MadisonCawein1551 Death
T
I find what all have found before,
The presence I have feared so much,
The unknown’s immaterial door.
The do not know the thing I find:
The fillet of fatality
Drops from my brows that made me blind.
The way I take I may not choose:
Out of the night into the night,
And in the night no certain clews.
And dark with dust and sacrifice,
Death’s towering ruin from the past
Makes black the land that round me lies.