I wonder if his desk could feel his pen
As keenly as I feel his spirit here
We’re kindred spirits: writers, worldly men
I feel his spirit now; I feel him near
He gave the sick their health; he gave it free
He understood the calling which he chose
But Dr. Chekhov knew what he could be
He wrote as well, like one who surely knows
The sickness in his body took its toll
But not from Dr. Chekhov’s written art
His fame today was surely not his goal
But fame will come regardless of our part
His desk, his pen, his words remain today
It must be here that Chekov wants to stay.