Counted aloud by the sentinel clock
On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim,
With lidless, leaden eyes
That burned with the lurid, livid glare
Of the stars of Stygian skies;
And the wind, behind, with sighs,