To A Dead Journalist

The busy trade of life is over now, The intricate toil which was so hard for bread, The strife each day renewed 'neath this poor brow By this frail hand to be interpreted, The zeal, the forethought, the heart's wounds that bled, The anger roused, the stark blow answering blow, All that was centred in that aching head Of black necessity for weal or woe. --Its use, its purpose what? Nay, less than none, More blindly naught than even the dull clay Left on this bed, its corporal union done, Which we must shovel to its grave to--day. O soul of Man, thou pilgrim of distress Lost in Time's void! Thou wind of nothingness!