Anon. (Date Uncertain)
This was the box in which he kept his fan,
The only luxury he ever knew,
That great and lonely man.
Waving it back and forth, he talked to you.
Always his grave sad eyes perceived too well
How feebly we, his friends, would follow him
Up those far heights where he desired to dwell.
We watched him climb until our sight grew dim.
We lost him, high amid the crystal rocks
And clouded peaks, the great and lonely man.
All that remains now is the peachwood box
Which held his fan.