I CAUGHT the whispered tread of phantom feet,
Like hosts of dead leaves stirred to sudden flight,
And leaning forth into the wondering night
I saw the dead men marching down the street;
Unnumbered, numberless, in ranks complete,
Beneath the argent moon’s blue-silver light,
A world of dead men passed before my sight
To muffled music low and softly sweet.
There shone a light within their strange dead eyes,
That is not born of death, that knows not life,
A light of triumph, peace, and holy dread.
Amid the shadows, cheated of his prize,
With blunted scythe outworn with sterile strife,
Slunk vanquished Death with low down-bended head.
