Spoils of the Dead

    On a still summer day

    Came forth in the woods

    With the flowers to play.

    The flowers they plucked

    They cast on the ground

    For others, and those

    For still others they found.

    Flower-guided it was

    That they came as they ran

    On something that lay

    In the shape of a man.

    The snow must have made

    The feathery bed

    When this one fell

    On the sleep of the dead.

    But the snow was gone

    A long time ago,

    And the body he wore

    Nigh gone with the snow.

    The fairies drew near

    And keenly espied

    A ring on his hand

    And a chain at his side.

    They knelt in the leaves

    And eerily played

    With the glittering things,

    And were not afraid.

    And when they went home

    To hide in their burrow,

    They took them along

    To play with to-morrow.

    When you came on death,

    Did you not come flower-guided

    Like the elves in the wood?

    I remember that I did.

    But I recognised death

    With sorrow and dread,

    And I hated and hate

    The spoils of the dead.