| Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | | XI. O Come Quickly
Brother Death | | By Edward Dowden (1843–1913) |
| | | WHEN thou would’st have me go with thee, O Death, | |
| Over the utmost verge, to the dim place, | |
| Practise upon me with no amorous grace | |
| Of fawning lips, and words of delicate breath, | |
| And curious music thy lute uttereth; | 5 |
| Nor think for me there must be sought-out ways | |
| Of cloud and terror; have we many days | |
| Sojourned together, and is this thy faith? | |
| Nay, be there plainness ’twixt us; come to me | |
| Even as thou art, O brother of my soul; | 10 |
| Hold thy hand out and I will place mine there; | |
| I trust thy mouth’s inscrutable irony, | |
| And dare to lay my forehead where the whole | |
| Shadow lies deep of thy purpureal hair. | | | | |
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