The Artist
All day with brow of anxious thought
The dictionary through,
Amid a million words he sought
The sole one that would do.
He wandered on from pub to pub
Yet never ceased to seek
With burning brain and pencil stub
The Word Unique.
Said he: 'I’ll nail it down or die.
Oh Heaven help me, pray!'
And then a heavy car dashed by,
And he was in the way.
They rushed him to the hospital,
And though his chance was bleak,
He cried: 'I’ll croak, but find I shall
The Word Unique.'
They reckoned he was off his head,
And could be it was so;
For as they bent above his bed
He mumbled soft and low.
And then a name they heard him speak,
Yet did not deem it odd . . .
At last he’d found the Word Unique,—
Just God.
Altre opere di Robert W. Service...
