Frederick George Scott



My Friend Death

Will death come to me robed in black
    With hollow eyes and toothless grin?
Will he have wings upon his back
    And hold the scales to weigh my sin?
Shall I behold his face with dread

    And strive to hide me from his sight,
When death sits down beside my bed
    On my last night?

I picture death quite otherwise
     Than such a spectre full of gloom,

As herald of the morning skies
    To chase the darkness from my room,
An emanation from that star
    Which lingers last above the dawn,
And sees the golden lands afar

    And night withdrawn.

I like to think his voice is low
     And filled with murmurs of the sea,
Where tides for ever ebb and flow
    And taste the joys of destiny,

If death be such, when’er he come,
    I shall lie tranquil to the end,
Then say, with lips to others dumb,
    “I go, my friend.” [Page 17]