A dark and brooding character, he,
A man of genius half-hid
In the brown and dusty light
Of a far and distant sun.
Eyes shadowed beneath his brow,
Lips perfect and master-molded,
He contemplates his dark surroundings
And finds them in a sorry state.
He thinks, "What use existence, this?
To live beneath a dying sun?
To recognize the illness-
But be denied the cure?"
And I, poor I, who distant watches
He who is my counterpart,
Can only see the marble beauty
Of this death we both acknowledge.