The fagot burns brightly, but deep in my heart
Dwells a spirit of darkness that will not depart;
And it calls up old faces, and looks that they wore,
Ere the grim robber, Death, cast his shade at my door.

When his dark shadow falls on yon threshold again,
I shall smile in his face as I yield to his chain;
For my old eyes grow dim, and I no longer care
To be watching the fagot that's flickering there.

I hear the winds whistle, I hear the loud wave,
As I sit by my hearthstone and think of the grave,
The eyes that are sunken, the brows that are cold,
The lips that are faded, the shroud and the mould.