His thwarted mind and pallid blood,

His wily thoughts a homey tramp,

Tames every mutineer’s soul

Lulls every honeyed heart

He a zealot, his lyrics ceaseless

He digs no gold, but a spring of bliss

A merchant of words, a wilderness wanderer

Who counts every sand grain glorious on his hands.

Forget the gross roads he took

The seas of peril he went through.

And when his dawn shall fade in a glimpse,

Let he meet his forever, most divine dream.