DREAD.
HERE'S a tread in the ante-chamber, A heavy foot-fall there;I heard it last night at eleven, Climbing the oaken stair.They said it might be the postman, Was it the postman Death?But I saw in his hand no letter, No mail in his bag beneath.
But perhaps it was an angel, Was it the angel Death?For under his mantle were arrows Half hid in an iron sheath.
I opened the casement softly, For a breath of cool night air,But sighs of trees, nor murm'ring streams Could drown that foot-fall there.
