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Men called him just a poet,
A beggar, blithe and boon,
Who lived up in a garret
Near the moon.

Men called him just a dreamer,
Whose world was far away,
Who strangely kept on singing,
Night and day.

Men called him just a minstrel,
Whose ballads charmed the throng,
Who saw in life but beauty,
Joy, and song.

Men called him then a poet,
A vagabond of rhyme,
Men call him now a prophet,
Such is time!