Epitaph
Here lies the dust of one who came
To grief, by willfully going his own way.
Few now remember his old-fashioned name
Though he raised many heckles in his day.
He was a man above common measure tall,
His height being the cross he had to bear.
Worse; he was not prepossessing at all,
Being ungainly, well-eyed and spare.
He was often (to make a true confession!)
Troubled by melancholy, conceit and pride.
Given to postures gone long out of fashion
What other affirmed he usually denied.
A man who wore many masks in his time,
Being changeable by temperament.
Was constant only in his devotion to rhyme.
And thought of poetry almost as a sacrament.
People thought he rather threw away his chances,
Remaining true to his youthful addiction.
Spurning those other arts whereby a man advances
By slow steps; in official estimation.
So here he lies, no monument of marble or brass,
Or learned critical work attest his fame.
Only this small plot of untended grass.
And the book of poems that bears his name.
Reader, if you feel a twinge of remorse
Forbear! Though your feeling do you credit.
It is better far to read his verse,
If you haven’t read it.
