Lines on the Death of Moyshe Nadir

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 uncombed,

And without a cravat. . . .

And I,

With a smile,

And a bow of reverence,

Place here at his feet

This wreath of verse. . .

Translated by Joseph Kling (1920)