A fragment.it reads:
"Deep below the roots still grow
Though petrified and dead
And meek of wrath the path I go
Through the tractless and the dread."
And now he thought, so hard he'd fought
To relight but an ember
Of the fire his head had brought
To slumber and remember
But with dots this page was marked
And crude the verses seemed to him
Such a fading bow had arced
Gone as with the wind.
And now who called, whose voiced had bawled
He exclaimed, 'Come in, come in!'