Turning to poverty his wealth of days
With hushed pursuit of him in all his ways,
Whence art thou come, from what dead land of
Night?
Speak, only speak, occult, accursèd shade,
Who ne'er to human eyes hast yet displayed
Thine awful shape; ah, could we only hear
Thy thin, pale voice! Thy ghastly step draws
near,
But bring not thee—therefore we grow afraid.