A moth of sable plume
Hovers in the gloom
Of the cold room—

Hovers, while the eyes
Of the man who lies
Dying, without surprise,

Watch its bewildering flight
On wings of downy night
About the candle-light,

As if he'd always known,
When he should lie alone
Facing the Unknown,

Her dark soul, from the tomb
Returned, would haunt the gloom
Of the cold room.