Edwin Arlington Robinson

Lincoln as he appeared to one soon after the Civil War

A flying word from here and thereHad sown the name at which we sneered,But soon the name was everywhere,To be reviled and then revered:A presence to be loved and feared,We cannot hide it, or denyThat we, the gentlemen who jeered,May be forgotten by and by.He came when days were perilousAnd hearts of men were sore beguiled,And having made his note of us,He pondered and was reconciled.Was ever master yet so mildAs he, and so untamable?We doubted, even when he smiled,Not knowing what he knew so well.He knew that undeceiving fateWould shame us whom he served unsought;He knew that he must wince and wait—The jest of those for whom he fought;He knew devoutly what he thoughtOf us and of our ridicule;He knew that we must all be taughtLike little children in a school.We gave a glamour to the taskThat he encountered and saw through;But little of us did he ask,And little did we ever do.And what appears if we reviewThe season when we railed and chaffed?—It is the face of one who knewThat we were learning while we laughed.The face that in our vision feelsAgain the venom that we flung,Transfigured, to the world revealsThe vigilance to which we clung.Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and amongThe mysteries that are untold—The face we see was never young,Nor could it ever have been old.For he, to whom we had appliedOur shopman’s test of age and worth,Was elemental when he died,As he was ancient at his birth:The saddest among kings of earth,Bowed with a galling crown, this manMet rancor with a cryptic mirth,Laconic—and Olympian.The love, the grandeur, and the fameAre bounded by the world alone;The calm, the smouldering, and the flameOf awful patience were his own:With him they are forever flownPast all our fond self-shadowings,Wherewith we cumber the UnknownAs with inept, Icarian wings.For we were not as other men:’Twas ours to soar and his to see.But we are coming down again,And we shall come down pleasantly;Nor shall we longer disagreeOn what it is to be sublime,But flourish in our perigeeAnd have one Titan at a time.

A flying word from here and there

Had sown the name at which we sneered,

But soon the name was everywhere,

To be reviled and then revered:

A presence to be loved and feared,

We cannot hide it, or deny

That we, the gentlemen who jeered,

May be forgotten by and by.

He came when days were perilousAnd hearts of men were sore beguiled,And having made his note of us,He pondered and was reconciled.Was ever master yet so mildAs he, and so untamable?We doubted, even when he smiled,Not knowing what he knew so well.

He came when days were perilous

And hearts of men were sore beguiled,

And having made his note of us,

He pondered and was reconciled.

Was ever master yet so mild

As he, and so untamable?

We doubted, even when he smiled,

Not knowing what he knew so well.

He knew that undeceiving fateWould shame us whom he served unsought;He knew that he must wince and wait—The jest of those for whom he fought;He knew devoutly what he thoughtOf us and of our ridicule;He knew that we must all be taughtLike little children in a school.

He knew that undeceiving fate

Would shame us whom he served unsought;

He knew that he must wince and wait—

The jest of those for whom he fought;

He knew devoutly what he thought

Of us and of our ridicule;

He knew that we must all be taught

Like little children in a school.

We gave a glamour to the taskThat he encountered and saw through;But little of us did he ask,And little did we ever do.And what appears if we reviewThe season when we railed and chaffed?—It is the face of one who knewThat we were learning while we laughed.

We gave a glamour to the task

That he encountered and saw through;

But little of us did he ask,

And little did we ever do.

And what appears if we review

The season when we railed and chaffed?—

It is the face of one who knew

That we were learning while we laughed.

The face that in our vision feelsAgain the venom that we flung,Transfigured, to the world revealsThe vigilance to which we clung.Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and amongThe mysteries that are untold—The face we see was never young,Nor could it ever have been old.

The face that in our vision feels

Again the venom that we flung,

Transfigured, to the world reveals

The vigilance to which we clung.

Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among

The mysteries that are untold—

The face we see was never young,

Nor could it ever have been old.

For he, to whom we had appliedOur shopman’s test of age and worth,Was elemental when he died,As he was ancient at his birth:The saddest among kings of earth,Bowed with a galling crown, this manMet rancor with a cryptic mirth,Laconic—and Olympian.

For he, to whom we had applied

Our shopman’s test of age and worth,

Was elemental when he died,

As he was ancient at his birth:

The saddest among kings of earth,

Bowed with a galling crown, this man

Met rancor with a cryptic mirth,

Laconic—and Olympian.

The love, the grandeur, and the fameAre bounded by the world alone;The calm, the smouldering, and the flameOf awful patience were his own:With him they are forever flownPast all our fond self-shadowings,Wherewith we cumber the UnknownAs with inept, Icarian wings.

The love, the grandeur, and the fame

Are bounded by the world alone;

The calm, the smouldering, and the flame

Of awful patience were his own:

With him they are forever flown

Past all our fond self-shadowings,

Wherewith we cumber the Unknown

As with inept, Icarian wings.

For we were not as other men:’Twas ours to soar and his to see.But we are coming down again,And we shall come down pleasantly;Nor shall we longer disagreeOn what it is to be sublime,But flourish in our perigeeAnd have one Titan at a time.

For we were not as other men:

’Twas ours to soar and his to see.

But we are coming down again,

And we shall come down pleasantly;

Nor shall we longer disagree

On what it is to be sublime,

But flourish in our perigee

And have one Titan at a time.

“Tell me what you’re doing over here, John Gorham—Sighing hard and seeming to be sorry when you’re not.Make me laugh or let me go now, for long faces in the moonlightAre a sign for me to say again a word that you forgot.”“I’m over here to tell you what the moon alreadyMay have said or maybe shouted ever since a year ago;I’m over here to tell you what you are, Jane Wayland,And to make you rather sorry, I should say, for being so.”“Tell me what you’re saying to me now, John Gorham,Or you’ll never see as much of me as ribbons any more;I’ll vanish in as many ways as I have toes and fingers,And you’ll not follow far for one where flocks have been before.”“I’m sorry now you never saw the flocks, Jane Wayland;But you’re the one to make of them as many as you need.And then about the vanishing: it’s I who mean to vanish;And when I’m here no longer you’ll be done with me indeed.”“That’s a way to tell me what I am, John Gorham!How am I to know myself until I make you smile?Try to look as if the moon were making faces at you,And a little more as if you meant to stay a little while.”“You are what it is that over rose-blown gardensMakes a pretty flutter for a season in the sun.You are what it is that with a mouse, Jane Wayland,Catches him and let’s him go and eats him up for fun.”“Sure I never took you for a mouse, John Gorham.All you say is easy, but so far from being trueThat I wish you wouldn’t ever be again the one to think so;For it isn’t cats and butterflies that I would be to you.”“All your little animals are in one picture—One I’ve had before me since a year ago to-night;And the picture where they live will be of you, Jane Wayland,Till you find a way to kill them or to keep them out of sight.”“Won’t you ever see me as I am, John Gorham,Leaving out the foolishness and all I never meant?Somewhere in me there’s a woman, if you know the way to find her—Will you like me any better if I prove it and repent?”“I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland;And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as wellFall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten,As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell.”

“Tell me what you’re doing over here, John Gorham—

Sighing hard and seeming to be sorry when you’re not.

Make me laugh or let me go now, for long faces in the moonlight

Are a sign for me to say again a word that you forgot.”

“I’m over here to tell you what the moon alreadyMay have said or maybe shouted ever since a year ago;I’m over here to tell you what you are, Jane Wayland,And to make you rather sorry, I should say, for being so.”

“I’m over here to tell you what the moon already

May have said or maybe shouted ever since a year ago;

I’m over here to tell you what you are, Jane Wayland,

And to make you rather sorry, I should say, for being so.”

“Tell me what you’re saying to me now, John Gorham,Or you’ll never see as much of me as ribbons any more;I’ll vanish in as many ways as I have toes and fingers,And you’ll not follow far for one where flocks have been before.”

“Tell me what you’re saying to me now, John Gorham,

Or you’ll never see as much of me as ribbons any more;

I’ll vanish in as many ways as I have toes and fingers,

And you’ll not follow far for one where flocks have been before.”

“I’m sorry now you never saw the flocks, Jane Wayland;But you’re the one to make of them as many as you need.And then about the vanishing: it’s I who mean to vanish;And when I’m here no longer you’ll be done with me indeed.”

“I’m sorry now you never saw the flocks, Jane Wayland;

But you’re the one to make of them as many as you need.

And then about the vanishing: it’s I who mean to vanish;

And when I’m here no longer you’ll be done with me indeed.”

“That’s a way to tell me what I am, John Gorham!How am I to know myself until I make you smile?Try to look as if the moon were making faces at you,And a little more as if you meant to stay a little while.”

“That’s a way to tell me what I am, John Gorham!

How am I to know myself until I make you smile?

Try to look as if the moon were making faces at you,

And a little more as if you meant to stay a little while.”

“You are what it is that over rose-blown gardensMakes a pretty flutter for a season in the sun.You are what it is that with a mouse, Jane Wayland,Catches him and let’s him go and eats him up for fun.”

“You are what it is that over rose-blown gardens

Makes a pretty flutter for a season in the sun.

You are what it is that with a mouse, Jane Wayland,

Catches him and let’s him go and eats him up for fun.”

“Sure I never took you for a mouse, John Gorham.All you say is easy, but so far from being trueThat I wish you wouldn’t ever be again the one to think so;For it isn’t cats and butterflies that I would be to you.”

“Sure I never took you for a mouse, John Gorham.

All you say is easy, but so far from being true

That I wish you wouldn’t ever be again the one to think so;

For it isn’t cats and butterflies that I would be to you.”

“All your little animals are in one picture—One I’ve had before me since a year ago to-night;And the picture where they live will be of you, Jane Wayland,Till you find a way to kill them or to keep them out of sight.”

“All your little animals are in one picture—

One I’ve had before me since a year ago to-night;

And the picture where they live will be of you, Jane Wayland,

Till you find a way to kill them or to keep them out of sight.”

“Won’t you ever see me as I am, John Gorham,Leaving out the foolishness and all I never meant?Somewhere in me there’s a woman, if you know the way to find her—Will you like me any better if I prove it and repent?”

“Won’t you ever see me as I am, John Gorham,

Leaving out the foolishness and all I never meant?

Somewhere in me there’s a woman, if you know the way to find her—

Will you like me any better if I prove it and repent?”

“I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland;And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as wellFall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten,As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell.”

“I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland;

And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as well

Fall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten,

As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell.”

RICHARD CORY

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,We people on the pavement looked at him:He was a gentleman from sole to crown,Clean favored, and imperially slim.And he was always quietly arrayed,And he was always human when he talked;But still he fluttered pulses when he said,“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,And admirably schooled in every grace:In fine, we thought that he was everythingTo make us wish that we were in his place.So on we worked, and waited for the light,And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,We people on the pavement looked at him:He was a gentleman from sole to crown,Clean favored, and imperially slim.

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,And he was always human when he talked;But still he fluttered pulses when he said,“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,And admirably schooled in every grace:In fine, we thought that he was everythingTo make us wish that we were in his place.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,Went home and put a bullet through his head.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

IWhile I stood listening, discreetly dumb,Lorraine was having the last word with me:“I know,” she said, “I know it, but you seeSome creatures are born fortunate, and someAre born to be found out and overcome—Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free;And if I’m one of them (and I must be)You may as well forget me and go home.“You tell me not to say these things, I know,But I should never try to be content:I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow.Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff;But I can’t do it—I don’t know enough.I’m going to the devil.” And she went.III did not half believe her when she saidThat I should never hear from her again;Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine,Was I surprised or grieved at what I read:“Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead.You are too far away to make me stop.They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!—Will be enough; but I’ll take five instead.“You do not frown because I call you friend;For I would have you glad that I still keepYour memory, and even at the end—Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curseThe love that flings, for better or for worse,This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.”

While I stood listening, discreetly dumb,Lorraine was having the last word with me:“I know,” she said, “I know it, but you seeSome creatures are born fortunate, and someAre born to be found out and overcome—Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free;And if I’m one of them (and I must be)You may as well forget me and go home.

While I stood listening, discreetly dumb,

Lorraine was having the last word with me:

“I know,” she said, “I know it, but you see

Some creatures are born fortunate, and some

Are born to be found out and overcome—

Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free;

And if I’m one of them (and I must be)

You may as well forget me and go home.

“You tell me not to say these things, I know,But I should never try to be content:I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow.Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff;But I can’t do it—I don’t know enough.I’m going to the devil.” And she went.

“You tell me not to say these things, I know,

But I should never try to be content:

I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow.

Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff;

But I can’t do it—I don’t know enough.

I’m going to the devil.” And she went.

I did not half believe her when she saidThat I should never hear from her again;Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine,Was I surprised or grieved at what I read:“Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead.You are too far away to make me stop.They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!—Will be enough; but I’ll take five instead.

I did not half believe her when she said

That I should never hear from her again;

Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine,

Was I surprised or grieved at what I read:

“Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead.

You are too far away to make me stop.

They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!—

Will be enough; but I’ll take five instead.

“You do not frown because I call you friend;For I would have you glad that I still keepYour memory, and even at the end—Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curseThe love that flings, for better or for worse,This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.”

“You do not frown because I call you friend;

For I would have you glad that I still keep

Your memory, and even at the end—

Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curse

The love that flings, for better or for worse,

This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.”

I heard one who said: “Verily,What word have I for children here?Your Dollar is your only Word,The wrath of it your only fear.“You build it altars tall enoughTo make you see, but you are blind;You cannot leave it long enoughTo 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 keepAs dark as ingots in a chest.“You laugh and answer, ‘We are young;Oh, leave us now, and let us grow:’Not asking how much more of thisWill Time endure or Fate bestow.“Because a few complacent yearsHave made your peril of your pride,Think you that you are to go onForever pampered and untried?“What lost eclipse of history,What bivouac of the marching stars,Has given the sign for you to seeMillenniums and last great wars?“What unrecorded overthrowOf all the world has ever known,Or ever been, has made itselfSo plain to you, and you alone?“Your Dollar, Dove and Eagle makeA Trinity that even youRate higher than you rate yourselves;It pays, it flatters, and it’s new.“And though your very flesh and bloodBe what your Eagle eats and drinks,You’ll praise him for the best of birds,Not knowing what the Eagle thinks.“The power is yours, but not the sight;You see not upon what you tread;You have the ages for your guide,But not the wisdom to be led.“Think you to tread forever downThe merciless old verities?And are you never to have eyesTo see the world for what it is?“Are you to pay for what you haveWith all you are?”—No other wordWe caught, but with a laughing crowdMoved on. None heeded, and few heard.

I heard one who said: “Verily,What word have I for children here?Your Dollar is your only Word,The wrath of it your only fear.

I heard one who said: “Verily,

What word have I for children here?

Your Dollar is your only Word,

The wrath of it your only fear.

“You build it altars tall enoughTo make you see, but you are blind;You cannot leave it long enoughTo look before you or behind.

“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 keepAs dark as ingots in a chest.

“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;Oh, leave us now, and let us grow:’Not asking how much more of thisWill Time endure or Fate bestow.

“You laugh and answer, ‘We are young;

Oh, leave us now, and let us grow:’

Not asking how much more of this

Will Time endure or Fate bestow.

“Because a few complacent yearsHave made your peril of your pride,Think you that you are to go onForever pampered and untried?

“Because a few complacent years

Have made your peril of your pride,

Think you that you are to go on

Forever pampered and untried?

“What lost eclipse of history,What bivouac of the marching stars,Has given the sign for you to seeMillenniums and last great wars?

“What lost eclipse of history,

What bivouac of the marching stars,

Has given the sign for you to see

Millenniums and last great wars?

“What unrecorded overthrowOf all the world has ever known,Or ever been, has made itselfSo plain to you, and you alone?

“What unrecorded overthrow

Of all the world has ever known,

Or ever been, has made itself

So plain to you, and you alone?

“Your Dollar, Dove and Eagle makeA Trinity that even youRate higher than you rate yourselves;It pays, it flatters, and it’s new.

“Your Dollar, Dove and Eagle make

A Trinity that even you

Rate higher than you rate yourselves;

It pays, it flatters, and it’s new.

“And though your very flesh and bloodBe what your Eagle eats and drinks,You’ll praise him for the best of birds,Not knowing what the Eagle thinks.

“And though your very flesh and blood

Be what your Eagle eats and drinks,

You’ll praise him for the best of birds,

Not knowing what the Eagle thinks.

“The power is yours, but not the sight;You see not upon what you tread;You have the ages for your guide,But not the wisdom to be led.

“The power is yours, but not the sight;

You see not upon what you tread;

You have the ages for your guide,

But not the wisdom to be led.

“Think you to tread forever downThe merciless old verities?And are you never to have eyesTo see the world for what it is?

“Think you to tread forever down

The merciless old verities?

And are you never to have eyes

To see the world for what it is?

“Are you to pay for what you haveWith all you are?”—No other wordWe caught, but with a laughing crowdMoved on. None heeded, and few heard.

“Are you to pay for what you have

With all you are?”—No other word

We caught, but with a laughing crowd

Moved on. None heeded, and few heard.

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