The Bride of Huitzil by Hervey Allen

And no one dared awake the king -- He slept -- to him it seemed White vapor covered everything, And through its rifts there gleamed A figure striding through the mist; Dimly he saw the head, The white skull set with turquoise stones, The goddess of the dead.

Now at the hour before the dawn, When owlets cease to call, He put a cloak of black skins on And walked forth from the hall, Across the terrace, down the stair, Along an empty street, Where the lone watchman felt his hair Rise at the soundless feet. But to the dying king it seemed As though he moved with ease Upon a journey he had dreamed -- No weight above his knees -- So from his house he passed away, Down to the stony strand Where the black water of the lake Whimpered against the land. And there he hailed a boatman dim Who gave a toothless scream And motioned to wade out to him; Cold as a mountain stream He felt the lake rise to his chin; It seemed to strike him through And freeze his heart -- but he plunged in, And clutched the black canoe.