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.
[51]
