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!