O Death, when thou shalt come to me
Out of thy dark, where she is now,
Let no faint perfume cling to thee
Of 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.