Analysis of Captain Craig
I doubt 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,
And old, and hungry; but the worst of it
Was a forlorn familiar consciousness
That he had failed again. There was a time
When he had fancied, if worst came to worst,
And he could do no more, that he might ask
Of whom he would. But once had been enough,
And soon there would be nothing more to ask.
He was himself, and he had lost the speed
He started with, and he was left behind.
There was no mystery, no tragedy;
And if they found him lying on his back
Stone dead there some sharp morning, as they might,—
Well, once upon a time there was a man—
Es war einmal ein König, if it pleased him.
And he was right: there were no men to blame:
There was just a false note in the Tilbury tune—
A note that able-bodied men might sound
Hosannas on while Captain Craig lay quiet.
They might have made him sing by feeding him
Till he should march again, but probably
Such yielding would have jeopardized the rhythm;
They found it more melodious to shout
Right on, with unmolested adoration,
To keep the tune as it had always been,
To trust in God, and let the Captain starve.
He must have understood that afterwards—
When we had laid some fuel to the spark
Of him, and oxidized it—for he laughed
Out loud and long at us to feel it burn,
And then, for gratitude, made game of us:
“You are the resurrection and the life,”
He said, “and I the hymn the Brahmin sings;
O Fuscus! and we’ll go no more a-roving.”
We were not quite accoutred for a blast
Of any lettered nonchalance like that,
And some of us—the five or six of us
Who found him out—were singularly struck.
But soon there came assurance of his lips,
Like phrases out of some sweet instrument
Man’s hand had never fitted, that he felt
“No penitential shame for what had come,
No virtuous regret for what had been,—
But rather a joy to find it in his life
To be an outcast usher of the soul
For such as had good courage of the Sun
To pattern Love.” The Captain had one chair;
And on the bottom of it, like a king,
For longer time than I dare chronicle,
Sat with an ancient ease and eulogized
His opportunity. My friends got out,
Like brokers out of Arcady; but I—
May be for fascination of the thing,
Or may be for the larger humor of it—
Stayed listening, unwearied and unstung.
When they were gone the Captain’s tuneful ooze
Of rhetoric took on a change; he smiled
At me and then continued, earnestly:
“Your friends have had enough of it; but you,
For a motive hardly vindicated yet
By prudence or by conscience, have remained;
And that is very good, for I have things
To tell you: things that are not words alone—
Which are the ghosts of things—but something firmer.
“First, would I have you know, for every gift
Or sacrifice, there are—or there may be—
Two kinds of gratitude: the sudden kind
We feel for what we take, the larger kind
We feel for what we give. Once we have learned
As much as this, we know the truth has been
Told over to the world a thousand times;—
But we have had no ears to listen yet
For more than fragments of it: we have heard
A murmur now and then, and echo here
And there, and we have made great music of it;
And we have made innumerable books
To please the Unknown God. Time throws away
Dead thousands of them, but the God that knows
No death denies not one: the books all count,
The songs all count; and yet God’s music has
No modes, his language has no adject
Scheme | XABCDXEFGHXIJXXXXXAXDKXXXFIJXLXLXHMXXXBXXXXBCNOKPX XXXXIGQRXXIXXXXNPGCKERCXOXRFAXXCDSXQXXXMHHXPXSXXFXXXXXF |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Tetractys (20%) |
Metre | 1111101101 1101011101 1111111111 11000111 1111110101 111111111 0101011111 1101010101 1101011111 0011111111 01001110101 110100100 101110101 1111010011 1111011101 1101011111 111010101 0101010100 1111111101 1101110111 0101110111 1101010111 1110110111 0100110101 0101010111 0101010111 1001010100 1111011101 1111011111 0111111111 1111111101 0111110111 1101011101 1101011101 1111001100 0111110111 1111110111 1101011101 1111111111 0111101111 11101100101 0111010111 111101110 1111111101 1111011100 1101110010 1111010011 111010010 110111111 1101010101 111011100 1111110101 110101111 1101111111 011101111 110010001 1101010101 1101111010 10111101 1101010111 0111011111 1111010001 1111010111 1101111100 1111010111 1111111 1100011111 11001111011 111110101 1111110101 1101010111 0101011101 1101111100 111101010 101001111 11011111 111010101 11110101011 1100101 1101010101 1100110111 1101010100 1111011111 10101010001 1101110101 0111011111 1111111101 11011111010 11111111001 110111111 111100101 1111110101 1111111111 1111110111 1101010101 1111111101 1111011111 0101010101 01011111011 0111010001 1100111101 1101110111 1101110111 0111011101 11110111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,429 |
Words | 846 |
Sentences | 21 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 50, 55 |
Lines Amount | 105 |
Letters per line (avg) | 32 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 1,692 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 419 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 29, 2023
- 4:14 min read
- 196 Views
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"Captain Craig" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 30 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/9955/captain-craig>.
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