My garden hath a slender path br With ivy overgrown, br A secret place where once would pace br A pot all alone; br I see him now with fretted brow, br Plunged deep in thought; br And sometimes he would write maybe, br And sometimes he would not. br br A verse a day he used to say br Keeps worry from the door; br Without the stink of printer's ink br How life would be a bore! br And so from chime of breakfast time br To supper he would beat br The pathway flat, a mossy mat br For his poetic feet. br br He wrote, I'm told, of gods of old br And mythologic men; br Far better he had sung, maybe, br Of plain folks now and then; br With bitterness he would confess br Too lofty was his aim. . . . br And then with woe I saw him throw br His poems to the flame. br br He went away one bitter day br When death was in the sky; br No further word I ever heard br Beyond his last goodbye. br Did battle grim take toll of him br In heaven-rocking wrath? br Oh did he write in starry flight br His name in flame on hell-brewed night? br ... Well, there's my poet's path.