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Poem	I say no more for Clavering Than I should say of him who fails To bring his wounded vessel home When reft of rudder and of sails; I say no more than I should say Of any other one who sees Too far for guidance of to-day, Too near for the eternities. I think of him as I should think Of one who for scant wages played, And faintly, a flawed instrument That fell while it was being made; I think of him as one who fared, Unfaltering and undeceived, Amid mirages of renown And urgings of the unachieved; I think of him as one who gave To Lingard leave to be amused, And listened with a patient grace That we, the wise ones, had refused; I think of metres that he wrote For Cubit, the ophidian guest: “What Lilith, or Dark Lady”… Well, Time swallows Cubit with the rest. I think of last words that he said One midnight over Calverly: “Good-by—good man.” He was not good; So Clavering was wrong, you see. I wonder what had come to pass Could he have borrowed for a spell The fiery-frantic indolence That made a ghost of Leffingwell; I wonder if he pitied us Who cautioned him till he was gray To build his house with ours on earth And have an end of yesterday; I wonder what it was we saw To 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 wonderings To 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.
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