Through the candle’s flickering light,
I gaze outside, outside my window.
And I see—
I saw my fate; I saw it come to me,
And it gave me quite a fright.

“What do you come for?” I ask.
“What seeks thee at my holy door?”
“Ah well, not much, dear,” he replies,
And he walks in as his cloak sways.
All doors are shut; no escape remains.
“It seems,” I sigh, “much like Edgar’s Nevermore,
Much like some oracular lore.”

“I make myself pellucid, sir,” he intones.
“Perchance thou art unable to comprehend,
That I shall not move unless you be gone,
Unless your escape comes before dawn.”
“Ah! Fear not, sire,” I whisper,
“My word never fails,
But my broken heart you must mend,
And my conscience you must always tend.”

“Ay, Hamlet! Your Ophelia you shall get,” he smiles.
“And why ask you for aegis and esteem?
Pray fathom, dear, I am nought but your shadow,
To guard you till the last afterglow.
Damn that satanic dubiety which flows for miles.
Nevertheless, child, wake to the sunbeam;
Rise to reality—’twas but a dream.”