| Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | | XI. O Come Quickly
A Cry | | By Herbert Edwin Clarke (b. 1852) |
| | | LO, I am weary of all, | |
| Of men and their love and their hate; | |
| I have been long enough Life’s thrall | |
| And the toy of a tyrant Fate. | |
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| I would have nothing but rest, | 5 |
| I would not struggle again; | |
| Take me now to thy breast, | |
| Earth, sweet mother of men. | |
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| Hide me and let me sleep; | |
| Give me a lonely tomb | 10 |
| So close and so dark and so deep | |
| I shall hear no trumpet of doom. | |
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| There let me lie forgot | |
| When the dead at its blast are gone; | |
| Give me to hear it not, | 15 |
| But only to slumber on. | |
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| This is the fate I crave, | |
| For I look to the end and see | |
| If there be not rest in the grave | |
| There will never be rest for me. | 20 | | | |
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