This is the man who classified the bits
Of his friends' hells into a pigeonhole —
He hung each disparate anguish on the spits
Parboiled and roasted in his own withering soul.

God give him peace! He gave none other peace.
His conversation glided on the brain
Like a razor honing in promise of one's decease —
Smooth like cold steel, yet feeling without pain;

And as his art, disjected from his mind,
Was utterly a tool, so it possessed him;
A passionate devil, informed in humankind,
It turned on him — he's dead. Shall we detest him?