THE VOICE OF THE VOID

I warn, like the one drop of rain

On your face, ere the storm;

Or tremble in whispered refrain

With your blood, beating warm.

I am the presence that ever

Baffles your touch's endeavor,—

Gone like the glimmer of dust

Dispersed by a gust.

I am the absence that taunts you,

The fancy that haunts you;

The ever unsatisfied guess

That, questioning emptiness,

Wins a sigh for reply.

Nay; nothing am I,

But the flight of a breath —

For I am Death!