the evening in his nightie, and it winter time, carrying a banner
advertising a shredded wood-fiber commodity which won't be invented
until a hundred and fifty years after he is dead!

Can you beat it? You can't even tie it.

Let us look further into the matter:

His brow was sad; his eyes beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

Get it, don't you? Even his features fail to jibe. His brow is
corrugated with grief, but the flashing of the eye denotes a lack
of intellectual coherence which any alienist would diagnose at a
glance as evidence of total dementia, even were not confirmatory
proof offered by his action in huckstering for a product which
doesn't exist, in a language which no one present can understand.
The most delirious typhoid fever patient you ever saw would know
better than that.

To continue:

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!