Of late, I've heard not from the Passerby,
Who seems, to me, so like a well-known friend,
Who, as a kindly critic, seemed to bend
The precious truth till it should seem a lie.
He, enigmatic, seems so nearly shy...
Perhaps some circumstance makes him pretend,
As 'tis unwise but to resume his trend,
Till hate, impassion, starved of fight, should die.
But I, who'd celebrate him, must salute
So grand a chap who dares to bare his soul,
Who'd, not some ill (e'en to his foes) impute.
He seems that type so many would extol
By deft poetics shaming lyre or lute
Of those beneath Euterpe's sweet control.