Scaredcrow

To me, at times , there steals a warning word;
Mine ear its whisper seems to catch.
In troubled thoughts from spectres of the night,
When falls on men the vision-seeing-trance,-
And fear has come, and trembling dread
And made my every bone to thrill with awe-
'Tis then before me stirs a breathing form;
O'er all my flesh it makes the hair rise up.
It stands; no face distinct can I discern;
An outline is before mine eyes;
Deep silence! then a voice I hear:
Is mortal man more just than God?
Is boasting man more pure than He who made him?
In his own servants, lo, he trusteth not,
Even on his angels dothe he charge defect.
Much more to them who dwell in homes of clay,
With their foundation laid in dust, and crumbled like the moth
From morn till night they're stricken down;
Without regard they perish utterly.
Their cord of life, is it not torn away?
They die-still lacking wisdom.