EVEN IN THE GRAVE

I laid my inventory at the hand

Of Death, who in his gloomy arbour sate;

And while he conned it, sweet and desolate

I heard Love singing in that quiet land.

He read the record even to the end —

The heedless, livelong injuries of Fate,

The burden of foe, the burden of love and hate;

The wounds of foe, the bitter wounds of friend:

All, all, he read, ay, even the indifference,

The vain talk, vainer silence, hope and dream.

He questioned me: “What seek'st thou then instead?”

I bowed my face in the pale evening gleam.

Then gazed he on me with strange innocence:

“Even in the grave thou wilt have thyself,” he said.