While dreams throng the yard at my door.

 In my strong soul aware of a grewsome terror there

 Soon to knock with command at my door.

41

 Is it the hollow voice of the census-taker Time

 In his old idle round from door to door?

 Or only the north wind, when all the leaves are thinned,

 Come at last with his moan to my door?

 I cannot guess nor tell; only it comes and comes,

 As from a vaster world beyond my door,

 From centuries of eld, the death of freedom knelled,

 A host of mortal fears at my door.

 Then I wake; and joy and youth and fame and love and bliss,

 And all the good that ever passed my door,

 Grow dim, and faint and fade, with the whole world unmade,

 To perish as the summer at my door.

 The crouching heart within me quails like a shuddering thing,

 As I turn on my pillow to the door;

 Then in the chill white dawn, when life is half withdrawn,

 Comes the dream-curdling “Wolf!” at my door.

 Prev. P 39/99 next