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.