Could I spit upon his tomb
And wash his fame out, I would do it.
Could I then his flesh exhume
And add more worms to burrow through it,
I would do it.

Could I get at every heart
That holds love of him, I would break it.
I would find some murder-dart
Of mockery to pierce and shake it,
Then would break it.

Could I then be made to cry
Reasons for it, all I would say is,
" Fools! he was sublime, and I
Was to him as night to day is —
That my say is!"