Page:The Man Who Died Twice (1924).djvu/21

 Conferred without a sure and small alloy

Of hate, that made the giver and gift alike

A negligible mildew to Fernando,

In whose equipment of infirmities

A place that might have held a little envy

Was overfilled with scorn. Out of his realm,

And only with a tinkler’s apprehension

Of what those unproved opuses of his

Were like to do when they began to sing,

There was no reason in eternity

For me to be distressed at his assurance

That they were all immortal. Who was I,

A hewer of wood, to say that they were not,

Or to be disaffected if they should be?

Today I cannot tell you what was in them,

Nor shall tomorrow know; for they are now,

As ashes, mute as ashes. Whether he found