Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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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