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.