A POET'S EPITAPH



L IFE was unkind to him;
      All things went wrong:
Fortune assigned to him
  Merely a song.

Ever a mystery
  Here to his heart;
In his life's history
  Love played no part.

Carve on the granite,
  There at the end,
Where all may scan it,
  Death was his friend.

Gizvng him all he missed
  Here upon Earth -
Love and the call he missed
  All that was worth.



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