One long word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a pamphlet even fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other men wrote thus before;
On the morrow he will leave me as the others did before.”
Said the Yankee, “Crypto! More!”
Startled at the stillness broken by the words so oddly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,
Caught from an unhappy master, who some shocking brain disaster,
Turned into a poetaster, till his thoughts one burden bore—
Till the echoes of his thoughts one melancholy burden bore