Page:Avon's harvest.djvu/61

 Coming for them, but there was none for me Until a shapeless remnant of a moon Rose after midnight over the black trees Behind me. I should hardly have confessed The heritage then of my identity To my own shadow; for I was powerless there, As I am here. Say what you like to say To silence, but say none of it to me Tonight. To say it now would do no good, And you are here to listen. Beware of hate, And listen. Beware of hate, remorse, and fear, And listen. You are staring at the damned, But yet you are no more the one than he To say that it was he alone who planted The flower of death now growing in his garden. Was it enough, I wonder, that I struck him? I shall say nothing. I shall have to wait