The Voice Of The Void

I warn, like the one drop of rain On your face, ere the storm; Or tremble in whispered refrain With your blood, beating warm. I am the presence that ever Baffles your touch's endeavor,— Gone like the glimmer of dust Dispersed by a gust. I am the absence that taunts you, The fancy that haunts you; The ever unsatisfied guess That, questioning emptiness, Wins a sigh for reply. Nay; nothing am I, But the flight of a breath— For I am Death!