Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.

With veiled excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eye despairs above the stairs, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how his world will end -
to die unknown, forlorn, alone? No use a farewell penned!

And soon the boys chase phantom joys then, presto when they’ve gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features wan,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
(like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, though fairy dust's withdrawn).  

With twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.