John Champlain Gardner

Note about the subject:
John was the author of many novels, plays, transliterations of medieval texts, and three influential works on the art of writing: On Becoming a Novelist, The Art of Fiction, and On Moral Fiction. Many of his students, such as Raymond Carver and Charles Johnson, have had successful publishing careers. Additionally, he wrote children's stories (such as "Dragon, Dragon"), plays (including "Days of Vengeance" written for his mother, Priscilla), composed operas, librettos, and paintings, and played the French horn (having studied music at the Eastman School of Music). John died in 1982 in a motorcycle accident. He was the best I ever saw.
Books by John Gardner
 

Olde John is gone now
And (like as not) won't be returning 
Until many another dry October season 
Casts its gold eye on all remembering: 
How a crimson leaf sails
(Warning of winter's knock)
How easily will frost turn wood to stone, 
And rattle the tears of my bones.

He has travelled the long, lazy road 
Of a well told tale,
And sung the familiar tunes 
Of working men
Moving hay up the chute,
Gathering the bounty of apple orchards 
Or trimming sheets,
And, kicking off the dust, 
He lights his pipe
And moves on toward other tales.

I am a working man 
Surrounded by darkness 
Who is too weak to offer light. 
I am too often overwhelmed
By speculation in the midnight
And, finding no comfort in the evening wind, 
I draw the blind and spark the fire,
Entrust my welfare to the cleverest of liars: 
My Captain,
Who winks and turns the wheel.

There is magic in music,
The sculptures of artists in love with creation 
And the smell of fall.
Love has the smell of fall, 
Beauty of spring.
There'll be less magic tonight for our amusement, 
For that is everything.
There is no more.
We'll end the show early and shuffle toward the door.

So long to my champion!
My wild and gentle hero of the night. 
Goodbye, dear friend,
Farewell.