Classic Poem

When first I saw the old man dead,
I laid a curious hand upon his head,
To steal that little left in the soul's mould,
The knowledge of the rigour and the cold.
I asked no pardon of the Clay,
For the dead eyes had wandered in their day.
And kneeling ceremonious at his side,
I found a book he'd dropt the day he died,
Verses — which I repeated to dead ears in lieu of prayers.
I stole the book, regardless of his heirs,
Asking no pardon of the Clay,
For the dead man had loved me in his day.