A POET'S EPITAPH

Life 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.

Giving him all he missed

Here upon Earth —

Love and the call he missed

All that was worth.