His words, which wrench my poet’s soul
Are of a man long dead,
And through his lines I see the words
That he has left unsaid.
A life of pleasure he pursued,
And plied his craft to same,
And still his soul came empty back,
Though body took free reign.
And though his voice has faded to
The printed ink of death,
Still I feel his soul cry to me
And wish we two had met.
