Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/84

 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.