The shivering winds of night an entrance made,
There was an old man—old in years and care—
With wrinkled brow and scant and frosty hair,
Stretched out in sleep; the earliest moonbeams played
On the hard pillow where his cheek was laid,
And, with her spirit hand, the wind of night
Lifted the thin locks from his temples white.
Such ghastly pallor o’er the features spread,
So marble cold appeared the silent head,
That one might start, despite the deep drawn breath,