What is the Poet’s meed, when life
Has passed, with all its toil and strife?
A tardy justice to his name;
A place upon the scroll of fame;
A wreath of praise which must atone
For years of suffering dark and lone;
A guerdon valueless at last,
When he who would have prized has past
Far from the sound of man’s rank breath —
A victor over all—even Death!