I see his book of poetry
Master poet of bygone years
And from his grave he speaks to me
With inaudible words quite clear.
I reach for Poe and read Lenore:
“Ah, broken is the golden bowl”
You must “weep now or never more!”
I knew her not till now, poor soul!
But I’ll recite a monody
of youth, death and slanderous tongues
with intonated prosody
for this youth that died so young.