Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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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.
 
I would have nothing but rest,        5
  I would not struggle again;
Take me now to thy breast,
  Earth, sweet mother of men.
 
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.
 
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.
 
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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