Shapes of Clay

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse—

So small a tenant of so big a house!

He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist

Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist)

And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount,

His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,—

What poetry he'd written but for lack

Of skill, when he had counted, to count back!

Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep

To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep!

To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs

And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings.

No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine,

Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!"

The genius of his purse no longer draws

The pleasing thunders of a paid applause.

All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains,

Though riddances of worms improve his brains.

All his no talents to the earth revert,

And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!"