tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767995778186136839.post4929268112511390597..comments2020-07-19T02:13:36.535-07:00Comments on CAMWS Necrologies <br> <i>Abierunt ad maiores</i>: Arthur F. Stocker (2010)Alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00197260980851708636noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767995778186136839.post-48806921831709857612010-04-10T16:19:34.839-07:002010-04-10T16:19:34.839-07:00CORVUS DIXIT
An Ode to Professor Arthur Frederick ...CORVUS DIXIT<br />An Ode to Professor Arthur Frederick Stocker<br /><br />Once upon a midday dreary, while he pondered, weak and weary,<br />Over many a Greek and Latin volume of forgotten lore–<br />While he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,<br />As of someone gently rapping, rapping at his office door.<br />“ ‘Tis some first-year man,” he muttered, “tapping at my office door.”<br />“. . . Excuse me, sir–I’m Rick LaFleur.”<br /><br />Ah, distinctly I recall–it was in New Cabell Hall,<br />Where his nameplate on the wall proudly “A. F. Stocker” bore. <br />“Is this where I sign for Latin?” “It is–come in!” Then I sat in-<br />Side his office with him, chatting all about his “Latin Four.”<br />“Eighty lines a day at least is where we start in Latin Four–<br />Increased weekly, evermore!”<br /><br />Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,<br />“Sir,” said I, “Professor Stocker, your forgiveness I implore;<br />But I guess I have been napping, and so gently you've been rapping,<br />And so faintly you’ve been rapping, rapping ‘bout your Latin Four, <br />That I scarce was sure I heard you–eighty lines in Latin Four?<br />Increased weekly, evermore?”<br /><br />All around his bookshelves peering, long I sat there wondering, fearing,<br />Dreaming dreams no Latin student ever dared to dream before;<br />But the silence was unbroken, the which professor gave no token,<br />And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “And more!”<br />This then was our first encounter, back in nineteen sixty-four;<br />I took the course and signed for more . . ..<br /><br />Months later to his office turning, Servian soul within him burning,<br />Arthur Frederick heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. <br />“Surely,” said he, “surely that is something at my window lattice;<br />Let me see, then, what thereat is”; nothing there, he tried the door.<br />“Excuse me, sir. I’ve come to major,” quaked the trembling sophomore.<br />“Sign here, lad . . . forevermore!”<br /><br />Two decades thence I flung the shutter of my window, when aflutter<br />In there stepped a stately Raven of the classic days of yore.<br />Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;<br />But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door–<br />Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door–<br />Perched, and sat, and nothing more.<br /><br />Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,<br />By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore;<br />“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,<br />Edgar Poe’s symbolic Raven, winging from Virginia’s shore–<br />Tell me who ‘twas most instilled my love of Classics, I implore.”<br />“Arthur Stocker . . . evermore.”<br /><br />Richard A. LaFleur, semper discipulus illius, University of Georgia, 1984 (composed on the occasion of Arthur's "retirement" in 1984 and recited at a banquet in his honor at CAMWS in Williamsburg, Virginia; Arthur and I were members of UVa's Raven Society)Rick LaFleurnoreply@blogger.com