He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long,
And would like a meal more than a song!
The rattling dice come rattling down!
The pictured tablets glide;
But a deeper shade on the light hath grown
Of the parlor dim and wide,
And the embers utter a fitful blaze
On the forms that sit beside:
For three look white in its ghastly rays—
White as the corpse of ended days—