I

   Phantasmal fears,

   And the flap of the flame,

   And the throb of the clock,

   And a loosened slate,

   And the blind night’s drone,

Which tiredly the spectral pines intone!

II

And the blood in my ears

Strumming always the same,

And the gable-cock

With its fitful grate,

And myself, alone.

III

The twelfth hour nears

Hand-hid, as in shame;

I undo the lock,

And listen, and wait

For the Young Unknown.

IV

In the dark there careers—

As if Death astride came

To numb all with his knock—

A horse at mad rate

Over rut and stone.

V

No figure appears,

No call of my name,

No sound but “Tic-toc”

Without check.  Past the gate

It clatters—is gone.

VI

What rider it bears

There is none to proclaim;

And the Old Year has struck,

And, scarce animate,

The New makes moan.

VII

   Maybe that “More Tears!—

   More Famine and Flame—

   More Severance and Shock!”

   Is the order from Fate

   That the Rider speeds on

To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone.

1915–1916.