An Epitaph Poem by Richard Realf

This poet was very wealthy. If he missed
Worlds’ honors, and worlds’ plaudits, and the wage
Of the worlds’ deft lackeys, still his lips were kissed
Daily by those high angels who assuage
The thirstings of the seers. For he was
Born unto singing, and a burthen lay
Mightily on him, and he moaned because
He could not rightly utter to the day
What God taught in the night. Yet oft would fall
Swift Power upon him, and winged tongues of flame;
And blessings reached him from poor souls in thrall,
And benedictions from black pits of shame,
And little children’s loves, and old men’s prayers,
And a Great Hand that led him unawares.