What dread visions did you have to write so convincingly,
And what mad ghost drove you on to create so rapidly
That cadre of heroes that we've come to know;
Like Conan and Kull, and Bran and Turlogh?
And what was the magic that filtered down
And came from your typewriter to move around
The pages of old, old Weird Tales;
Full of goblins grim, and ghoulies pale.
I don't know what was in the touch you had
When it came to indulging in strife.
And I don't know what was in the dreams you had,
Or why you took your life.
But I know what you do to me
When I sit down to read your stories.
And I know about the bitter rust
That gnaws at the sword of glory.
And to whatever mania caused you to write and write and write,
And to whatever sane men say about why you took your life,
I can only say that your gift has turned into a legacy;
And I'm content to never know
why your stories do
what they do to me.