Is there a man with soul so dead,
can walk among his trees,
not see that even asphalt can grow a leaf,
and in the private satisfactions that fill his head,
not once give thought to that which he should dread?
Is there a man with soul on fire,
whose words and guns teach life as poor,
and only death is worth the dying for?
In his crazed obsession he claims his way as higher
than contented peace to which he sees dull relatives aspire?
Unseen, unfelt, the spirit lives on from time before,
a time when music and patience were a cure.
During the Repudiation, one thinker’s vote was cast for death.
This being novel at the time, was foppishly believed.
Poor soul so dead.