So tender to the light it breaks them-- sunset rising, midnight's their noon, earth's ancients following cock's call home to sleep. They cannot take death too seriously, who half-live each borrowed day, alone in a shuttered room, slender of face and eyes sensibly shut, though stake and cross shake their dreams. Sir and Lady, hide quickly your pale daughters at dark's drawing on. These shapes frequent old mansions where no mirror may touch that softest step, nor will dust or cobweb break as they glide upon a play of dreams, and prey towards blood. At one touch all hungers turn simple, indifferent to dying. Linked to wolf's cry, small as a bat upon the night wind, still they fear the forms good men bear against them, so do not ask for pity ever. Yet if mischance find their eyes seared in a blaze of first sun, or if villages of arms all waving Christ drive one back upon his coffin's lid, go easy with your stake, sir. Pain sits on their hearts, heavy as ours.