From my desk he gazes at me in a frame of old-gold. Every day the
sunset on the glass blurs his large mournful joyous eyes with
strangest agonized sunset tears: he shows me the sweet, sweet
intoxication of his lyric grief.
He died young, unfinished--and oh, but it’s a shivering ecstasy
to think of all those lyrics in him he never wrote!--the sweeter
melodies--‘Unheard.’
_The edge of mist-and-silver_