His Soul

ONCE from the world of living men I passed, by a strange fancy led, To a still City of the Dead, To call upon a citizen. He had been famous in his day; Much talked of, written of, and praised For virtues my small soul amazed— And yet I thought his heart was clay. He was too full of grace for me: His friends said, on a marble stone, His soul sat somewhere near the Throne I did not know; I called to see. His name and fame were on the door— A most superior tomb indeed, Much railed, and gilt, and filigreed; He occupied the lower floor. I knocked—a worm crawled from its hole: I looked—and knew it for his soul.