She came to his bedside wearing her shroud
   and held in her hand a light.
She was even whiter than her shroud
   and the whitewashed wall, that white.

This is how she slowly crossed the floor
   and gently touched the curtain.
She shone the light in his face some more,
   bent down as if to be certain.

Yet her mouth was shut, shut too her eyes
   and motionless her breast.
She moved no lid, yet you’d surmise
   that speaking was her quest.

Down his spine and skin crept terror sheer
   and hard his heart did pound.
He meant to scream in mortal fear
   but could not make a sound.

He tried to move with all his might
   to ward off his demise,
But in his horror, dread and fright
   his limbs just would not rise.

But once he managed to prevail
   she had reached the door from his bed,
As white as chalk, wearing her veil,
   lighting the gloom ahead.