Robert Frost (1874–1963). A Boy’s Will. 1915.
25. Spoils of the Dead
T
On a still summer day
Came forth in the woods
With the flowers to play.
They cast on the ground
For others, and those
For still others they found.
That they came as they ran
On something that lay
In the shape of a man.
The feathery bed
When this one fell
On the sleep of the dead.
A long time ago,
And the body he wore
Nigh gone with the snow.
And keenly espied
A ring on his hand
And a chain at his side.
And eerily played
With the glittering things,
And were not afraid.
To hide in their burrow,
They took them along
To play with to-morrow.
Did you not come flower-guided
Like the elves in the wood?
I remember that I did.
With sorrow and dread,
And I hated and hate
The spoils of the dead.