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;

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;

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.