Men say, who heard him in the gardens read,
" Quaint connoisseur of verse and jest and flower,
And courtly and patient in the evil hour,
This was a goodly gentleman indeed. "
But I, who kept the house and from his greed
Hungered lean years on second-best and sour,
And mixed the drink that gave him speech and power,
Through all the soul that's left me break and bleed:

Not for myself; but for the city's just, —
Each kindly heart that struggles in the face,
Each honest hand that points, or voice that sings;
For when a hard man's laid away in dust,
Such praise is to the praisers their disgrace,
And one more outrage to the higher things.