Poems (Eckley)/Dread

by Sophia May Eckley

DREAD.

HERE'S a tread in the ante-chamber,
 A heavy foot-fall there;
I heard it last night at eleven,
 Climbing the oaken stair.

They said it might be the postman,
 Was it the postman Death?
But I saw in his hand no letter,
 No mail in his bag beneath.

But perhaps it was an angel,
 Was it the angel Death?
For under his mantle were arrows
 Half hid in an iron sheath.

I opened the casement softly,
 For a breath of cool night air,
But sighs of trees, nor murm'ring streams
 Could drown that foot-fall there.

O would we could live, that never
 With fear we should hear that tread,
But welcome the step as an angel's,
 To free us from doubt and dread.