Poul Anderson, 1926-2001

The stupid world hardly noticed.
No TV series bore his name,
No movies flowered from his pen:
Such is the world, and the world's fame.

Nicholas van Rijn has heard the news,
And it makes the old goat sour all day.
At last he takes him to a dive
And with beer and wenches mourns his way.

In the haunted hills the Kindly Folk
Long dreaded this day, yet still they weep.
The Seelie Court know mortals die,
But just this once they hope he sleeps.

Flandry of Terra gets the word
By Imperial envoy, and instead
Of completing his mission, drinks and broods.
Let the Empire hang!  His friend is dead.

In the West they grieve for Bela of Eastmarch,
Knight and President of the Bards,
Charter member of the Silver Molet,
A gentle man always, his name unmarred.

If there's a heaven where writers go,
Surely Campbell and Heinlein have saved a seat.
Sturgeon and Asimov slap his back,
And Garrett pours him a whisky, neat.

But we who knew him, however slightly,
Share Karen's and Astrid's loss and pain.
His books enriched us, his smile warmed us:
Poul Anderson's dead, and won't come again.

—In loving tribute
San Diego, 8/4/2001