Nightly earth's infants, garret-roofs beneath,
Wake shuddering and hark, with indrawn breath
And small clenched hands and faces woe-begone,
Till through the creaking gloom there mounteth
one
Whom they in ignorance mistake for Death.
Nor are we braver when we older grow,
For still "'Tis Death!" we sob. "'Tis Death! Ah
woe,
Deep woe, is me!" whene'er thou drawest nigh: