While shadowlike amid the shadows stood
Old Death, the archer grim.
We deemed his face was pitiless and blind;
Shot all at random seemed each whirring dart,
Yet none did fail a resting-place to find
In some wrung, quivering heart.
And there, with writhen limbs and sightless stare,
Down in the drenchèd grass the victim lay,
What erst was man, erect and tall and fair,
Now shrunk and fading clay.