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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT by ROBERT BURNS THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL, FR. THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE by WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT THE THREE BEST THING: 1. WORK by HENRY VAN DYKE AN APRIL MORNING by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 66. AL-I'HLAS by EDWIN ARNOLD |