Classic Poem

A galloping in the far distance
(it may be ...?),
that cometh, that o'er the plain rusheth
with pace all a-tremble and swift.

A plain like a desert, unending,
all ample, all arid, monotonous;
stray shadows of birds there bewildered,
that glide arrow-swift on their way;

Naught else. These wee creatures are fleeing
some horrible thing that approaches;
but what it may be or whence coming,
not earth and not heaven doth know.

A galloping in the far distance
now louder,
that cometh, that o'er the plain rusheth;
'Tis Death! It is Death! It is Death!