A poem by Thomas Edward Brown

I needs must meet him, for he hath beset
All roads that men do travel, hill and plain;
Nor aught that breathes shall pass
Unchallenged of his debt.
But what and if, when I shall whet
My front to meet him, then, as in a glass,
Darkly, I shall behold that he is twain,
Earthward a mask of jet,
Heavenward a coronet
Sun-flushed with roseate gleams, In any case
It hardly can be called a mortal pain
To meet whom met I ne'er shall meet again.

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