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. 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: WHY by EDITH SITWELL ODE TO A HUMAN HEART by SAMUEL LAMAN BLANCHARD HIS RETURN TO LONDON by ROBERT HERRICK BITTER-SWEET: CRADLE SONG [OR, BABYHOOD] by JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND THE BENCH OF BOORS by HERMAN MELVILLE HOPE AND FEAR by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |