Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/130



if ten men in all Tilbury Town Had ever shaken hands with Captain Craig, Or called him by his name, or looked at him So curiously, or so concernedly, As they had looked at ashes; but a few— Say five or six of us—had found somehow The spark in him, and we had fanned it there, Choked under, like a jest in Holy Writ, By Tilbury prudence. He had lived his life And in his way had shared, with all mankind, Inveterate leave to fashion of himself, By some resplendent metamorphosis, Whatever he was not. And after time, When it had come sufficiently to pass That he was going patch-clad through the streets, Weak, dizzy, chilled, and half starved, he had laid Some nerveless fingers on a prudent sleeve, And told the sleeve, in furtive confidence, Just how it was: "My name is Captain Craig," He said, "and I must eat." The sleeve moved on, And after it moved others—one or two; For Captain Craig, before the day was done, Got back to the scant refuge of his bed And shivered into it without a curse— Without a murmur even. He was cold,