Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/69

 And paint disaster with uplifted whites, Is life's epitome. She prates and prates — A waterbrook of words o'er twelve small pebbles. And when she dies — some grey, long, summer evening, When the bird shouts of childhood through the dusk, 'Neath night's faint tapers — then her body shall Lie stiff with silks of sixty thrifty years.