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Poem	I had a bitter enemy, His heart to hate he gave, And when I died he swore that he Would dance upon my grave; That he would leap and laugh because A livid corpse was I, And that's the reason why I was In no great haste to die. And then - such is the quirk of fate, One day with joy I read, Despite his vitalizing hate My enemy was dead. Maybe the poison in his heart Had helped to haste his doom: He was not spared till I depart To spit upon my tomb. The other day I chanced to go To where he lies alone. 'Tis easy to forgive a foe When he is dead and gone. . . . Poor devil! Now his day is done, (Though bright it was and brave,) Yet I am happy there is none To dance upon my grave.
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