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.