Book 3 — Strong as Death.[11]

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow. Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand— Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land; But with that sweet and subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch. With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed. And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.