[Poem - With an Update] - Who Is It?

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I thought I would re-post an older work, but now include an image that I found that I liked and that seemed to relate to the poem. I hope the community will agree that there is at least a bit of new content and, hopefully, value. If you have previously read this poem and perhaps upvoted it back then, please know that I am not asking you to upvote it again, even with the image--though I would be glad to know if it added something new to the experience. Please let me know what you think!

I don't recall what exactly inspired this poem; perhaps it was a dream I had. Perhaps the poem itself is describing a dream; there does seem to be a dream-like quality to it. I like how the tension builds, but the ending feels a bit rushed (which is a complaint I often have of my work). Has this poor, bleary-eyed soul been woken from sleep and dragged down the hall to open the door, just to discover it was himself that called himself out of a perfectly sound sleep? Or perhaps a mischievous twin? But for what purpose? I honestly don't know!

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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!

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The "silhouette moon" image above is used courtesy of a Creative Commons license, and is originally from here:

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Thanks for reading and perhaps listening.