There was a terror in that room
Like faint light streaming from a tomb.
I tried three times before I spoke,
And then the bald words made me choke:
'Be quiet, man, for I am come
To bring you the _viaticum_!'--
I made the sign of holiness.
He rattled out a startled cry.
I whispered low, 'Confess, confess!'
His thin hands quivered with distress.
It is a bitter thing to die.
Just when a blast fell on the town,
I felt his lean claws clutch me down.
It seemed as if the hands of death
Were beating at my breast for breath;
His arms were like a twisted rope
Of rotten strands that tugged at hope.
_'Listen, my father, listen well!'_
The wind went tolling like a bell:
_'She's lying fifty fathoms deep,_
_Where fishes like white birds go by_
_Through water-air in ocean-land;_
_She has a prayer-book in her hand--_
_Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke;_
_Her hair goes floating out and up,_
_Blown one way, with the water weeds,_
_Always one way, like amber smoke.
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