LIGHTLY I hold my life, with little dread And little hope for what may spring thereform, But live like one that builds a summer's home Of branches on a dried-up river-bed, And takes no thought of frescoed blue and red To paint the walls, and plans no golden dome, Knowing the flood, when autumn rains are come, Shall roll its ruining waters overhead. And wherefore should I plant my ground and sow? -- Since, though I reck not of the day or hour, The conqueror comes at last, the alien foe Shall come to my defenceless place in power, With force, with arms, with strenuous overthrow, Taking the goods I gathered for his dower. |