Dora Sigerson Shorter,
The Hours of Illness
(1918)
“ And I alone—a coward—alone, afraid, Lest he from his dread brow the shroud displace. 'Tis five o'clock! Within the empty room, Threading their way, the happy dead appear, More living than the quick in this still night— All whom I loved or held me ever dear. 'Tis six o'clock! Death moves from my bed-head, Flings high the shroud from off his hidden face. ”
