Once upon a dawn still dreary, while I stumbled, numb and weary,

From a bed that held the hollow of a love that was no more,

Came a creak across the floorboards, then a silence sharp as sword-blades,

As of something gently swaying, swaying by the door.

“’Tis the wind,” I whispered, trembling, “swaying by the door—

Only wind and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in that bleak November,

When the frost had drawn its fingers cross the window evermore;

Eagerly I sought the daylight, vainly tried to flee the night-fright,

Sought to flee the endless absence of the one I’d sworn before—

He whose name I dare not utter, lost to me for evermore—

Lost, and gone for evermore.

Then the dim and dreadful curtain seemed to breathe a cold uncertain,

Filled me—chilled me with a terror I had never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

“’Tis the wind that shakes the rafters, there's nothing by the door—

Only wind that shakes the darkness by the door—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

For the silence screamed a summons I could never have ignored;

Softly then I crossed the threshold, stepped into the gloom so death-cold,

One slow push upon that door—

One slow push, and there was nothing swaying gently, as before—

Nothing swaying still and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness staring, long I stood there, broken, tearing,

Dreaming dreams of guilt and sorrow none should ever dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

Back into the house I staggered, all my soul within me shattered,

Yet again I heard that creaking, louder than it was before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely something in the rafters is still swaying,

Let me see, then, what the horror, let me face it as before—

Let my heart be still one moment, face the horror as before—

’Tis the wind and nothing more.”

Open flung I then the doorway, when, with neither sound nor flurry,

And in there stepped a thing of darkness, blacker than the night’s own core;

Not a feather did it carry, yet its gaze did pierce and harry,

Perched within his open eyeball, staring from the hardened floor—

Perched within the eye that loved me, staring from the hardened floor—

Staring still and nothing more.

Then this ebony thing beguiling my torn spirit into wailing,

By the cold and stern dominion of the stare that it now bore,

“Though no wing nor beak thou bearest, art thou sure thee is the fairest"

Much I marvelled this black droplet to hear discourse so starkly,

Though its answer little mercy—little comfort ever bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was cursed with seeing such a thing within the core—

Such an inky blot within my love's one eye upon the concrete floor—

Whispering “I loved you more”

But the blot, in silence sitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

In the eye that once had held me with a love forevermore.