Vast are its halls, as vast the halls and lone
Where Death stalks listening to the wind and rain;
And dark that house, where I shall meet again
My long-dead Sin in some dread way unknown;
For I have dreamed of stairs of haunted stone,
And spectre footsteps I have fled in vain;
And windows glaring with a blood-red stain,
And horrible eyes, that burn me to the bone,
Within a face that looks as that black night
It looked when deep I dug for it a grave,—
The dagger wound above the brow, the thin
Blood trickling down slantwise the ghastly white;—
And I have dreamed not even God can save
Me and my soul from that risen Sin.
At Dawn.
Far off I heard dark waters rush;
The sky was cold; the dawn broke green;
And wrapped in twilight and strange hush
The gray wind moaned between.
A voice rang through the House of Sleep,
And through its halls there went a tread;
Mysterious raiment seemed to sweep
Around the pallid dead.
And then I knew that I had died,
I, who had suffered so and sinned—
And 't was myself I stood beside
In the wild dawn and wind.