Only the lightning showed the door
    That like two cats we darted for;
    It almost gave a man a qualm
    To find the house inside so calm.

    I sloshed all dripping up the stair,
    Up to an attic room a-glare
    With candle-shine and lightning-flare—­
    With little draughts that moved its hair
    A wrinkled mummy sat a-stare,
    Rigid, huddling in a chair. 
    I thought at first the thing was dead
    Until the eyes slid in its head.

    It seemed as if the Banshee storm
    Knocked screaming for his withered form;
    It shrieked and whistled like a parrot,
    Clucking and stuttering through the garret. 
    With-out, the mailed hands of hail
    Battered the casements, and the gale
    About his low roof shuddered, sighing,
    As if it knew that he was dying. 
    It breathed like waiting beasts outside,
    While soft feet made the shingles slide.

    Then, like a blow upon the cheek,
    The mummy’s voice began to speak: 

’Give me a priest!  I’m going to die!’ The Banshee wind took up the cry:  ‘Give him a priest, he’s going to die!’ The old house seemed to rock with laughter, Shaking its sides and every rafter.

    There was a terror in that room
    Like faint light streaming from a tomb. 
    I tried three times before I spoke,
    And then the bald words made me choke: 
    ’Be quiet, man, for I am come
    To bring you the viaticum!’—­
    I made the sign of holiness. 
    He rattled out a startled cry. 
    I whispered low, ‘Confess, confess!’
    His thin hands quivered with distress. 
    It is a bitter thing to die.

Just when a blast fell on the town, I felt his lean claws clutch me down.  It seemed as if the hands of death Were beating at my breast for breath; His arms were like a twisted rope Of rotten strands that tugged at hope. ’Listen, my father, listen well!’ The wind went tolling like a bell: 

’She’s lying fifty fathoms deep, Where fishes like white birds go by Through water-air in ocean-land; She has a prayer-book in her hand—­ Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke; Her hair goes floating out and up, Blown one way, with the water weeds, Always one way, like amber smoke.

She asks the gift she gave to me—­ This ring—­I cannot get it off!’ His hand and hand fought like two claws—­ ’I hear her calling from the sea!’ His terror made my own heart pause.

    His voice went moaning with the wind,
    And groaned and rattled, ‘I have sinned,’
    And moaned and murmured at my ear
    Of bat-winged angels standing near.