Who is it?

Who comes knocking at thy door,
Upon this late and quiet hour,
Pregnant with the feel of night,
The dawn a stranger to this air?

Who makes thee struggle from thy bed,
Tearing thee from sleep's embrace,
That ease of slumbers' deep repose,
To snatch thee back from dreaming's theft?

Who forces from thee shambling steps,
Laden down with twilight's weight,
To make thee shuffle from thy room,
And bear thee slowly to thy stoop?

Who cracks thy bleery eyes half-open,
Half-seeing through thy heavy lids,
To gaze dimly at thy portal's door,
Half-knowing what awaits thee there?

Who makes thee fumble at the latch,
And pull upon the heavy frame,
Which swings aside on angry hinge,
Revealing that unwelcome sight?

Who is it stands upon the portal now,
In shrouded nightfall's deep unseen,
A figure cloaked yet not unknown,
Though outlined in such dim relief?

It is He who stands before the door,
In eventide's obscuring shade,
That shows an Aspect oh so darkly,
Etched in midnight's ebon lines!

It is He who makes thy heart to tremble,
Shocked by that remembered face,
Whose warp and woof you can't forget,
That countenance so like thine own!