Classic Poem

Death came knocking, knocking,
Knocking in the night;
Death came knocking, knocking,
But the door held tight.

His thin fingers could not pry
Between the slit and the latch's click;
And one eye peered through the keyhole,
And his breath snarled quick:

" Only a lodging for the night
For a traveling gentleman " —
And his twitching knuckles drummed
A sinister rataplan.

But we drove the desperate heat
Of our pulses into the pulse
That flickered under the sheet
And forced the eyes to convulse

Back to the fumbling stare
Beneath dank sweat on some
Familiar far-off chair
Or pot of geranium. . . .

Then as terror's cord
Relaxed its frozen hold
On our foreheads like a sword,
We chattered limp and cold.

And stabbed blind with fatigue
At length, we heard as snow
Behind shut windows the knocking
Stop, the stark feet go.