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.