Here lies who thought himself the best
Of poet’s in the world’s extend;
In life he had not joy nor res
He filled with madness many a song,
And at whatever age he died
Thus many days he lived too lon
He lived im powerless egotism,
His soul tumultuous and disordered
By thought and feeling’s endless schis
In everything he had a foe
And without courage bore his part
In life’s interminable wo
He was a slave to grief and fear
And incoherent thoughts he had
And wishes unto madness nea
Those whom he loved, by arts of ill
He treated worse than foes; but he
His own worst enemy was stil
He of himself did ever sing,
Incapable of modesty,
Lock’d in his wild imaginin
Useless was all his toiless trouble
Empty of sense his fears and pains
And many of them were ignobl
Vile thus and worthless his distress;
His words, though bitterer far than hate,
His bitter soul could not expres