Outside the house a tempest blows,
moaning of its own secret woes.
Next to the bed a candle glows,
but nearer still, a shadow grows.

Mandos is tall; his face is pale,
both young and ancient, wise and hale.
The girl he sees is sick and frail:
her eyes betray a tragic tale.

"Shh-shh," he whispers, bending near.
"I promise, you have naught to fear."
His cool hand dries a falling tear
as his voice soothes the dying ear.

Amid the candle's guttering
and ceiling-shadows fluttering,
the girl's thin frame is shuddering,
her voice broken and stuttering.

"Please spare my child," she begs him. "Please…"
And at a glance, the Doomsman sees
a tiny figure slowly freeze
as its soul from its body flees.

The mother trembles, stills and sighs,
the life-light dimming from her eyes
while just outside the cold wind cries,
and by the bed, the candle dies.