DEATH.
The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light,
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night;
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose,
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night;
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose,
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.
His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death;
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death;
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8c/Poems_Davidson_p151.jpg)