One day a Call will come to him,

And rising from his littered table slow,

He'll stand, his pale face framed in rumpled hair,

And dreamy eyed, he'll go ....

And, dreamy eyed he'll go....

And folks will only see the pen laid down

On broken word, the chair pushed back.

They will not understand. It needs a soul

To hear the Call, the soul they lack.

And will they way,"The poet's dead,"

Seeing the empty room and all

The windows open to the night...

They will not know about the Call.