A Poet's Epitaph

LIFE was unkind to him;
All things went wrong:
Fortune assigned to him
Merely a song.
Ever a mystery
Here to his heart;
In his life's history
Love played no part.
Carve on the granite,
There at the end,
Where all may scan it,
Death was his friend.
Giving him all he missed
Here upon Earth—
Love and the call he missed
All that was worth.