If only on that blighted day, O lad,
Dear Lord had pity on your downcast heart
Filled it with joy, you would not be sad,
But blessed to lead the greatness of your art.
The garret and mourned when you had strown
The pages of your verse all o'er the place;
Your inkpot wept and grieved your wooden throne
And knew therefrom they'd never see your face.
If only true insight could fill the eyes
Of critics who refused your poetry,
Your matchless mind would live to prove 'twas wise
Beyond its age and time for all to see;
Some decades later, when your skill they crowned
In sorrow's bane you had already drowned.