What are those footsteps, creeping up the stairs,
As if strange men were stealing towards my room? …
What, those black figures moving round the bed,
And stooping over me with brows of gloom? …

Why do they lift me in a box of wood,
And bear me slowly, like a precious load,
Down the dark stair, and towards the gateway, where
Impatient horses paw the frozen road?

Is this, indeed, farewell—farewell, at last?
Farewell to the old house where I was born?
And will the light reveal an empty bed,
When they fling wide the shutters to the morn?