“How clever of you!  There’s nothing you can’t do.  I know I shall love it.”

He pointed to a sheaf of papers on a table.

“The top one.  It is a mournful subject, yet I hope treated cheerfully.  I wrote it before death was in sight; but I feel no more alarmed or concerned about death now than I did then.  You may think it is too simple.  But simplicity, though boring to the complex mind, is really quite worth while.  The childlike spirit—­there is much to be said for it.  No doubt I have missed a great deal by limiting my interests; but I have gained too—­in directness.”

“There is a greatness about simplicity,” she said.

“To be simple in my life and subtle in my thought was my ambition at one time; but I never could rise to subtlety.  The native bent was against it.  The poem—­I do not err in calling it a poem—­is called ’Afterwards’—­unless you can think of a better title.  If any obvious and glaring faults strike you, tell me.  No doubt there are many.”

She read the two pages written in his little, careful and almost feminine hand.

“When I am dead, the storm and stress
Of many-coloured consciousness
Like blossom petals fall away
And drops the calyx back to clay;
A man, not woman, makes the bed
When our night comes and we are dead.

“When I am dead, the ebb and flow
Of folk where I was wont to go,
Will never stay a moment’s pace,
Or miss along the street my face. 
Yet thoughts may wake and things be said
By one or two when I am dead.

“When I am dead, the sunset light
Will fill the gap upon the height
In summer time, but on the plain
Sink down as winter comes again
And none who sees the evening red
Will know I loved it, who am dead.

“When I am dead, upon my mound
Exotic flow’rs may first be found,
And not until they’ve blown away
Will other blossoms come to stay. 
A daisy growing overhead
Brings gentle pleasure to the dead.

“When I am dead, I’d love to see
An amber thrush hop over me
And bend his ear, as he would know
What I am whispering down below. 
May many a song-bird find his bread
Upon my grave when I am dead.

“When I am dead, and years shall pass,
The scythe will cut the darnel grass
Now and again for decency,
Where we forgotten people lie. 
O’er ancient graves the living tread
With great impertinence on the dead.

“When I am dead, all I have done
Must vanish, like the evening sun. 
My book about the bells may stay
Behind me for a fleeting day;
But will not very oft be read
By anybody when I’m dead.”

She stopped and smiled with her eyes full of tears.

“I had meant to write another verse,” he explained, “but I put it off and it’s too late now.  Such as it is, it is yours.  Does it seem to you to be interesting?”

“It’s very interesting indeed, and very beautiful.  I shall always value it as my greatest treasure.”