When he had finished, he expressed the opinion that it was the most finished of his works, and I agreed. He shrugged his shoulders, looked at the paper, and recited his composition again, but this time without quavering or trembling, emphasizing the literary qualities and bringing out the imagery and music in the verses. “By a sailor who happens to be also a poet.” “Yes, I suppose, when you consider…Well, after all, it’s just a few lines written by a sailor.” “They may lack poetic inspiration,” he remarked, after a moment’s hesitation, “but no one can deny them sentiment-although possibly the sentiment itself prejudices the merits…” When he had finished, he asked me whether the verses were worthy of the treasure that he had lost.
He read it in a voice quavering with emotion, and the hand that held the paper was trembling. “The next day, he read to me a freshly composed dirge in which the circumstances of his wife’s death and burial were commemorated.
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