William James Dawson (1854–1928)

IN that sore hour around thy bed there stood

A silent guard of shadows, each equipp’d

With dart or arrow aim’d against thy life.

Thy breath came slowly all that awful night;

Outside I heard the wind and earth at strife,

And on the window’s ledge incessant dripp’d

The pitiless rain. At last I left thy room,

And passing out, upon its threshold’s edge

Who should I meet but Death! A wan clear light

Fell from his fathomless eyes, his brow was gloom,

His rustling raiment seem’d to sigh like sedge

When the salt marsh-winds wail and beat thereon.

He paused, he turn’d; and while I stood and wept,

Behold a crimson signal waved and shone

On the door’s lintel, even such an one

As he obey’d in Egypt, and I knew

Death heard some higher summons, and withdrew:

When I return’d, like a tired child you slept.