The Miser

By night he sits and gloats upon his hoard,
The treasures of far lands; fine fabrics spun
On looms beneath an oriental sun;
Rugs whereupon proud viziers have adored
At the muezzin-call; strange trinkets scored
With delicate fret-work; dazzling diamonds won
Where Afric's wastes stretch desolate and dun;
And perfect pearls profuse before him poured.

A golden glamour on the sumptuous sight
The lamplight casts, and the old miser's eyes
Tell how his soul is slave beneath the spell.
He does not dream, as half reclined he lies,
That just behind him stands, with falchion bright,
The summoning death-angel, Azrael.