| Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | | XI. O Come Quickly
Prospice | | By Robert Browning (1812–1889) |
| | | FEAR death?—to feel the fog in my throat, | |
| The mist in my face, | |
| When the snows begin, and the blasts denote | |
| I am nearing the place, | |
| The power of the night, the press of the storm, | 5 |
| The post of the foe; | |
| Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, | |
| Yet the strong man must go: | |
| For the journey is done and the summit attained, | |
| And the barriers fall, | 10 |
| Though a battle ’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained, | |
| The reward of it all. | |
| I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more, | |
| The best and the last! | |
| I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, | 15 |
| And bade me creep past. | |
| No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers | |
| The heroes of old, | |
| Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears | |
| Of pain, darkness, and cold. | 20 |
| For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, | |
| The black minute ’s at end, | |
| And the elements’ rage, the fiend-voices that rave, | |
| Shall dwindle, shall blend, | |
| Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, | 25 |
| Then a light, then thy breast, | |
| O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, | |
| And with God be the rest! | | | | |
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