Lines on the Death of Moyshe Nadir
Composed by His Very Self
To the memory of Moyshe Nadir,—
Once among the living
And neatly combed—
Who did spend two or three hours daily
On the perfect knotting of his cravat,
And who loved his every finger nail;
Loved, and esteemed, and protected
His precious self
From approaching locomotives
And chilling draughts. . . .
Now he lies cold,
And without a cravat. . . .
With a smile,
And a bow of reverence,
Place here at his feet
This wreath of verse. . .
Translated by Joseph Kling (1920)