Edwin Arlington Robinson

“ All the words of all the world, Aimed together and then hurled, Would be stiller in his ears Than a closing of still shears On a thread made out of years. But there lives another sound, More compelling, more profound; There's a music, so it seems, That assuages and redeems, More than reason, more than dreams. There's a music yet unheard By the creature of the word, Though it matters little more Than a wave-wash on a shore— Till a Demon shuts a door. So, if he be very still With his Demon, and one will, Murmurs of it may be blown To my friend who is alone In a room that I have known. ”

“ The Gift of God Blessed with a joy that only she Of all alive shall ever know, She wears a proud humility For what it was that willed it so,— That her degree should be so great Among the favored of the Lord That she may scarcely bear the weight Of her bewildering reward. As one apart, immune, alone, Or featured for the shining ones, And like to none that she has known Of other women's other sons,— The firm fruition of her need, He shines anointed; and he blurs Her vision, till it seems indeed A sacrilege to call him hers. ”

“ For whether lighted over ways that save, Or lured from all repose, If he go on too far to find a grave, Mostly alone he goes. Even he, who stood where I had found him, On high with fire all round him,— Who moved along the molten west, And over the round hill's crest That seemed half ready with him to go down, Flame-bitten and flame-cleft,— As if there were to be no last thing left Of a nameless unimaginable town,— Even he who climbed and vanished may have taken Down to the perils of a depth not known, From death defended though by men forsaken, The bread that every man must eat alone ”

“ He may not be so ancient as all that. For such as he, the thing that is to do Will do itself,—but there's a reckoning; The sessions that are now too much his own, The roiling inward of a stilled outside, The churning out of all those blood-fed lines, The nights of many schemes and little sleep, The full brain hammered hot with too much thinking, The vexed heart over-worn with too much aching,— This weary jangling of conjoined affairs Made out of elements that have no end, And all confused at once, I understand, Is not what makes a man to live forever. ”

“ No planetary trap where souls are wrought For nothing but the sake of being caught And sent again to nothing will attune Itself to any key of any reason Why man should hunger through another season To find out why 'twere better late than soon To go away and let the sun and moon And all the silly stars illuminate A place for creeping things, And those that root and trumpet and have wings, And herd and ruminate, Or dive and flash and poise in rivers and seas, Or by their loyal tails in lofty trees Hang screeching lewd victorious derision Of man's immortal vision. ”

“ Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain, And wistful yet for being cheated, A child would seem to ask again A question many times repeated; But no rebellion has betrayed Her wonder at what she has paid For memories that have no stain, For triumph born to be defeated. To those who come for what she was— The few left who know where to find her— She clings, for they are all she has; And she may smile when they remind her, As heretofore, of what they know Of roses that are still to blow By ways where not so much as grass Remains of what she sees behind her. ”

“ From pictured heights of power and lost renown,
Revealed at length to his outlived endeavor
Remote and unapproachable forever;
And at his heart there may have gnawed
Sick memories of a dead faith foiled and flawed
And long dishonored by the living death
Assigned alike by chance
To brutes and hierophants;
And anguish fallen on those he loved around him
May once have dealt the last blow to confound him,
And so have left him as death leaves a child,
Who sees it all too near;
And he who knows no young way to forget
May struggle to the tomb unreconciled. ”

“ For granted once the old way of Apollo Sings in a man, he may then, if he's able, Strike unafraid whatever strings he will Upon the last and wildest of new lyres; Nor out of his new magic, though it hymn The shrieks of dungeoned hell, shall he create A madness or a gloom to shut quite out A cleaving daylight, and a last great calm Triumphant over shipwreck and all storms. He might have given Aristotle creeps, But surely would have given him his 'katharsis'. He'll not be going yet. There's too much yet Unsung within the man. ”

“ Theophilus By what serene malevolence of names Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus? Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games Would have you long,—and you are one of us. Told of your deeds I shudder for your dreams, And they, no doubt, are few and innocent. Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, Heredity outshines environment. What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, Survives and amplifies itself in you? What manner of devilry has ever been That your obliquity may never do? Humility befits a father's eyes, But not a friend of us would have him weep. ”

“ Deterred by no confusion or surprise He may have seen with his mechanic eyes A world without a meaning, and had room, Alone amid magnificence and doom, To build himself an airy monument That should, or fail him in his vague intent, Outlast an accidental universe— To call it nothing worse— Or, by the burrowing guile Of Time disintegrated and effaced, Like once-remembered mighty trees go down To ruin, of which by man may now be traced No part sufficient even to be rotten, And in the book of things that are forgotten Is entered as a thing not quite worth while. ”

“ Siege Perilous Long warned of many terrors more severe To scorch him than hell's engines could awaken, He scanned again, too far to be so near, The fearful seat no man had ever taken. So many other men with older eyes Than his to see with older sight behind them Had known so long their one way to be wise,— Was any other thing to do than mind them? So many a blasting parallel had seared Confusion on his faith,—could he but wonder If he were mad and right, or if he feared God's fury told in shafted flame and thunder? ”

“ He knows how much of what men paint themselves Would blister in the light of what they are; He sees how much of what was great now shares An eminence transformed and ordinary; He knows too much of what the world has hushed In others, to be loud now for himself; He knows now at what height low enemies May reach his heart, and high friends let him fall; But what not even such as he may know Bedevils him the worst: his lark may sing At heaven's gate how he will, and for as long As joy may listen ”

“ Why pay we such a price, and one we give So clamoringly, for each racked empty day That leads one more last human hope away, As quiet fiends would lead past our crazed eyes Our children to an unseen sacrifice? If after all that we have lived and thought, All comes to Nought,— If there be nothing after Now, And we be nothing anyhow, And we know that,—why live? 'Twere sure but weaklings' vain distress To suffer dungeons where so many doors Will open on the cold eternal shores That look sheer down To the dark tideless floods of Nothingness Where all who know may drown. ”

“ He'll drink, for love of me, and then be sick; A sad sign always in a man of parts, And always very ominous. The great Should be as large in liquor as in love,— And our great friend is not so large in either: One disaffects him, and the other fails him; Whatso he drinks that has an antic in it, He's wondering what's to pay in his insides; And while his eyes are on the Cyprian He's fribbling all the time with that damned House. We laugh here at his thrift, but after all It may be thrift that saves him from the devil; God gave it, anyhow,—and we'll suppose He knew the compound of his handiwork. ”

“ The Man against the Sky Between me and the sunset, like a dome Against the glory of a world on fire, Now burned a sudden hill, Bleak, round, and high, by flame-lit height made higher, With nothing on it for the flame to kill Save one who moved and was alone up there To loom before the chaos and the glare As if he were the last god going home Unto his last desire. ”

“ To you— That's another point of view, One you may as well indue With some alarm. Not the most heroic face To present, I grant; Nor will you insure disgrace By fearing what you want. Freedom has a world of sides, And if reason once derides Courage, then your courage hides A deal of cant. Learn a little to forget Life was once a feast; You aren't fit for dying yet, So don't be a beast. Few men with a mind will say, Thinking twice, that they can pay Half their debts of yesterday, Or be released. ”

“ And others, knowing how this youth Would shine, if love could make him great, When caught and tortured for the truth Would only writhe and hesitate; While she, arranging for his days What centuries could not fulfill, Transmutes him with her faith and praise, And has him shining where she will. She crowns him with her gratefulness, And says again that life is good; And should the gift of God be less In him than in her motherhood, His fame, though vague, will not be small, As upward through her dream he fares, Half clouded with a crimson fall Of roses thrown on marble stairs. ”

“ Though none may know, by any chance, What rose-leaf ashes of romance Are faintly stirred by later days That would be well enough, she says, If only people were more wise, And grown-up children used their eyes.
The Dark House Where a faint light shines alone, Dwells a Demon I have known. Most of you had better say "The Dark House", and go your way. Do not wonder if I stay. For I know the Demon's eyes, And their lure that never dies. Banish all your fond alarms, For I know the foiling charms Of her eyes and of her arms, And I know that in one room Burns a lamp as in a tomb ”

“ And there's the Stratford in him; he denies it,
And there's the Shakespeare in him. So, God help him!
I tell him he needs Greek; but neither God
Nor Greek will help him. Nothing will help that man.
You see the fates have given him so much,
He must have all or perish,—or look out
Of London, where he sees too many lords;
They're part of half what ails him: I suppose
There's nothing fouler down among the demons
Than what it is he feels when he remembers
The dust and sweat and ointment of his calling
With his lords looking on and laughing at him. ”

“ But never told what kind of good Was in Alexis and Evander. And Old King Cole, with many a puff That haloed his urbanity, Would smoke till he had smoked enough, And listen most attentively. He beamed as with an inward light That had the Lord's assurance in it; And once a man was there all night, Expecting something every minute. But whether from too little thought, Or too much fealty to the bowl, A dim reward was all he got For sitting up with Old King Cole. ”

“ Your Dollar is your only Word, The wrath of it your only fear. "You build it altars tall enough To make you see, but you are blind; You cannot leave it long enough To look before you or behind. "When Reason beckons you to pause, You laugh and say that you know best; But what it is you know, you keep As dark as ingots in a chest. "You laugh and answer, 'We are young; O leave us now, and let us grow.'— Not asking how much more of this Will Time endure or Fate bestow. "Because a few complacent years Have made your peril of your pride, Think you that you are to go on Forever pampered and untried? ”

“ Nor shall harrowing surprise Find a world without its eyes If a star fades when the skies Are overcast. God knows there are lives enough, Crushed, and too far gone Longer to make sermons of, And those we leave alone. Others, if they will, may rend The worn patience of a friend Who, though smiling, sees the end, With nothing done. But your fervor to be free Fled the faith it scorned; Death demands a decency Of you, and you are warned. But for all we give we get Mostly blows? ”

“ He stares in vain for what awaits him, And sees in Love a coin to toss; He smiles, and her cold hush berates him Beneath his hard half of the cross; They wonder why it ever was; And she, the unforgiving, hates him More for her lack than for her loss. He feeds with pride his indecision, And shrinks from what will not occur, Bequeathing with infirm derision His ashes to the days that were, Before she made him prisoner; And labors to retrieve the vision That he must once have had of her. He waits, and there awaits an ending, And he knows neither what nor when ”

“ To glory; but hope lives on clamorous.
"'Twas hope, though heaven I grant you knows of what—
The kind that blinks and rises when it falls,
Whether it sees a reason why or not—
That heard Broadway's hard-throated siren-calls;
"'Twas hope that brought me through December storms,
To shores again where I'll not have to be
A lonely man with only foreign worms
To cheer him in his last obscurity.
"But what it was that hurried me down here
To be among the ghosts, I leave to you.
My thanks are yours, no less, for one thing clear:
Though you are silent, what you say is true. ”

“ When you try as hard again, You'll have another cause. When you find yourself at odds With all dreamers of all gods, You may smite yourself with rods— But not the laws. Though they seem to show a spite Rather devilish, They move on as with a might Stronger than your wish. Still, however strong they be, They bide man's authority: Xerxes, when he flogged the sea, May've scared a fish. It's a comfort, if you like, To keep honor warm, But as often as you strike The laws, you do no harm. ”

“ Age offers a far comelier diadem Than theirs; but anguish has no eye for grace, When time's malicious mercy cautions them To think a while of number and of space. The burning hope, the worn expectancy, The martyred humor, and the maimed allure, Cry out for time to end his levity, And age to soften its investiture; But they, though others fade and are still fair, Defy their fairness and are unsubdued; Although they suffer, they may not forswear The patient ardor of the unpursued. ”

“ He's all at odds with all the unities, And what's yet worse, it doesn't seem to matter; He treads along through Time's old wilderness As if the tramp of all the centuries Had left no roads—and there are none, for him; He doesn't see them, even with those eyes,— And that's a pity, or I say it is. Accordingly we have him as we have him— Going his way, the way that he goes best, A pleasant animal with no great noise Or nonsense anywhere to set him off— Save only divers and inclement devils Have made of late his heart their dwelling place. ”