Clavering

I say no more for ClaveringThan I should say of him who failsTo bring his wounded vessel homeWhen reft of rudder and of sails;

I say no more than I should sayOf any other one who seesToo far for guidance of to-day,Too near for the eternities.

I think of him as I should thinkOf one who for scant wages played,And faintly, a flawed instrumentThat fell while it was being made;

I think of him as one who fared,Unfaltering and undeceived,Amid mirages of renownAnd urgings of the unachieved;

I think of him as one who gaveTo Lingard leave to be amused,And listened with a patient graceThat we, the wise ones, had refused;

I think of metres that he wroteFor Cubit, the ophidian guest:“What Lilith, or Dark Lady” ... Well,Time swallows Cubit with the rest.

I think of last words that he saidOne midnight over Calverly:“Good-by--good man.” He was not good;So Clavering was wrong, you see.

I wonder what had come to passCould he have borrowed for a spellThe fiery-frantic indolenceThat made a ghost of Leffingwell;

I wonder if he pitied usWho cautioned him till he was grayTo build his house with ours on earthAnd have an end of yesterday;

I wonder what it was we sawTo make us think that we were strong;I wonder if he saw too much,Or if he looked one way too long.

But when were thoughts or wonderingsTo ferret out the man within?Why prate of what he seemed to be,And all that he might not have been?

He clung to phantoms and to friends,And never came to anything.He left a wreath on Cubit’s grave.I say no more for Clavering.