The poet hath given his soul,
As he lay heavy on the bed,
No more was he breathing,
Relaxed he seemed,
His pencil in his hand,
As the torment had ended,
A life unhappy he had spent,
In deep thought always,
That aged and illed him quickly,
I feared for him,
For he had believed,
He would be no more,
Than mere fertilizer,
To Mother Nature,
And his poetry,
Were his children,
To carry on his name,
If only he had believed,
He would be saved in eternity,
In real heavenly bliss,
Rather than rhyming couplets.