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Best Famous Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems

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by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

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 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.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

Mr Floods Party

 Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near; And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear: "Well, Mr.
Flood, we have the harvest moon Again, and we may not have many more; The bird is on the wing, the poet says, And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird.
" He raised up to the light The jug that he had gone so far to fill, And answered huskily: "Well, Mr.
Flood, Since you propose it, I believe I will.
" Alone, as if enduring to the end A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn, He stood there in the middle of the road Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees, Where friends of other days had honored him, A phantom salutation of the dead Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, He set the jug down slowly at his feet With trembling care, knowing that most things break; And only when assured that on firm earth It stood, as the uncertain lives of men Assuredly did not, he paced away, And with his hand extended paused again: "Well, Mr.
Flood, we have not met like this In a long time; and many a change has come To both of us, I fear, since last it was We had a drop together.
Welcome home!" Convivially returning with himself, Again he raised the jug up to the light; And with an acquiescent quaver said: "Well, Mr.
Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr.
Flood -- For auld lang syne.
No more, sir; that will do.
" So, for the time, apparently it did, And Eben evidently thought so too; For soon amid the silver loneliness Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, Secure, with only two moons listening, Until the whole harmonious landscape rang -- "For auld lang syne.
" The weary throat gave out, The last word wavered; and the song being done, He raised again the jug regretfully And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him, And there was nothing in the town below -- Where strangers would have shut the many doors That many friends had opened long ago.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |


 Oh for a poet—for a beacon bright 
To rift this changless glimmer of dead gray; 
To spirit back the Muses, long astray, 
And flush Parnassus with a newer light; 
To put these little sonnet-men to flight
Who fashion, in a shrewd mechanic way, 
Songs without souls, that flicker for a day, 
To vanish in irrevocable night.
What does it mean, this barren age of ours? Here are the men, the women, and the flowers, The seasons, and the sunset, as before.
What does it mean? Shall there not one arise To wrench one banner from the western skies, And mark it with his name forevermore?

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

Haunted House

 Here was a place where none would ever come
For shelter, save as we did from the rain.
We saw no ghost, yet once outside again Each wondered why the other should be so dumb; And ruin, and to our vision it was plain Where thrift, outshivering fear, had let remain Some chairs that were like skeletons of home.
There were no trackless footsteps on the floor Above us, and there were no sounds elsewhere.
But there was more than sound; and there was more Than just an axe that once was in the air Between us and the chimney, long before Our time.
So townsmen said who found her there.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |


 We told of him as one who should have soared 
And seen for us the devastating light 
Whereof there is not either day or night, 
And shared with us the glamour of the Word 
That fell once upon Amos to record
For men at ease in Zion, when the sight 
Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might 
Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord.
Assured somehow that he would make us wise, Our pleasure was to wait; and our surprise Was hard when we confessed the dry return Of his regret.
For we were still to learn That earth has not a school where we may go For wisdom, or for more than we may know.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |


 Because he puts the compromising chart 
Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; 
Because he counts the price that you have paid 
For innocence, and counts it from the start, 
You loathe him.
But he sees the human heart Of God meanwhile, and in His hand was weighed Your squeamish and emasculate crusade Against the grim dominion of his art.
Never until we conquer the uncouth Connivings of our shamed indifference (We call it Christian faith) are we to scan The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth To find, in hate’s polluted self-defence Throbbing, the pulse, the divine heart of man.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

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 adjectives.
” “You may be right, you may be wrong,” said I; “But what has this that you are saying now— This nineteenth-century Nirvana-talk— To do with you and me?” The Captain raised His hand and held it westward, where a patched And unwashed attic-window filtered in What barren light could reach us, and then said, With a suave, complacent resonance: “There shines The sun.
Behold it.
We go round and round, And wisdom comes to us with every whirl We count throughout the circuit.
We may say The child is born, the boy becomes a man, The man does this and that, and the man goes,— But having said it we have not said much, Not very much.
Do I fancy, or you think, That it will be the end of anything When I am gone? There was a soldier once Who fought one fight and in that fight fell dead.
Sad friends went after, and they brought him home And had a brass band at his funeral, As you should have at mine; and after that A few remembered him.
But he was dead, They said, and they should have their friend no more.
— However, there was once a starveling child— A ragged-vested little incubus, Born to be cuffed and frighted out of all Capacity for childhood’s happiness— Who started out one day, quite suddenly, To drown himself.
He ran away from home, Across the clover-fields and through the woods, And waited on a rock above a stream, Just like a kingfisher.
He might have dived, Or jumped, or he might not; but anyhow, There came along a man who looked at him With such an unexpected friendliness, And talked with him in such a common way, That life grew marvelously different: What he had lately known for sullen trunks And branches, and a world of tedious leaves, Was all transmuted; a faint forest wind That once had made the loneliest of all Sad sounds on earth, made now the rarest music; And water that had called him once to death Now seemed a flowing glory.
And that man, Born to go down a soldier, did this thing.
Not much to do? Not very much, I grant you: Good occupation for a sonneteer, Or for a clown, or for a clergyman, But small work for a soldier.
By the way, When you are weary sometimes of your own Utility, I wonder if you find Occasional great comfort pondering What power a man has in him to put forth? ‘Of all the many marvelous things that are, Nothing is there more marvelous than man,’ Said Sophocles; and he lived long ago; ‘And earth, unending ancient of the gods He furrows; and the ploughs go back and forth, Turning the broken mould, year after year.
’… “I turned a little furrow of my own Once on a time, and everybody laughed— As I laughed afterwards; and I doubt not The First Intelligence, which we have drawn In our competitive humility As if it went forever on two legs, Had some diversion of it: I believe God’s humor is the music of the spheres— But even as we draft omnipotence Itself to our own image, we pervert The courage of an infinite ideal To finite resignation.
You have made The cement of your churches out of tears And ashes, and the fabric will not stand: The shifted walls that you have coaxed and shored So long with unavailing compromise Will crumble down to dust and blow away, And younger dust will follow after them; Though not the faintest or the farthest whirled First atom of the least that ever flew Shall be by man defrauded of the touch God thrilled it with to make a dream for man When Science was unborn.
And after time, When we have earned our spiritual ears, And art’s commiseration of the truth No longer glorifies the singing beast, Or venerates the clinquant charlatan,— Then shall at last come ringing through the sun, Through time, through flesh, a music that is true.
For wisdom is that music, and all joy That wisdom:—you may counterfeit, you think, The burden of it in a thousand ways; But as the bitterness that loads your tears Makes Dead Sea swimming easy, so the gloom, The penance, and the woeful pride you keep, Make bitterness your buoyance of the world.
And at the fairest and the frenziedest Alike of your God-fearing festivals, You so compound the truth to pamper fear That in the doubtful surfeit of your faith You clamor for the food that shadows eat.
You call it rapture or deliverance,— Passion or exaltation, or what most The moment needs, but your faint-heartedness Lives in it yet: you quiver and you clutch For something larger, something unfulfilled, Some wiser kind of joy that you shall have Never, until you learn to laugh with God.
” And with a calm Socratic patronage, At once half sombre and half humorous, The Captain reverently twirled his thumbs And fixed his eyes on something far away; Then, with a gradual gaze, conclusive, shrewd, And at the moment unendurable For sheer beneficence, he looked at me.
“But the brass band?” I said, not quite at ease With altruism yet.
—He made a sort Of reminiscent little inward noise, Midway between a chuckle and a laugh, And that was all his answer: not a word Of explanation or suggestion came From those tight-smiling lips.
And when I left, I wondered, as I trod the creaking snow And had the world-wide air to breathe again,— Though I had seen the tremor of his mouth And honored the endurance of his hand— Whether or not, securely closeted Up there in the stived haven of his den, The man sat laughing at me; and I felt My teeth grind hard together with a quaint Revulsion—as I recognize it now— Not only for my Captain, but as well For every smug-faced failure on God’s earth; Albeit I could swear, at the same time, That there were tears in the old fellow’s eyes.
I question if in tremors or in tears There be more guidance to man’s worthiness Than—well, say in his prayers.
But oftentimes It humors us to think that we possess By some divine adjustment of our own Particular shrewd cells, or something else, What others, for untutored sympathy, Go spirit-fishing more than half their lives To catch—like cheerful sinners to catch faith; And I have not a doubt but I assumed Some egotistic attribute like this When, cautiously, next morning I reduced The fretful qualms of my novitiate, For most part, to an undigested pride.
Only, I live convinced that I regret This enterprise no more than I regret My life; and I am glad that I was born.
That evening, at “The Chrysalis,” I found The faces of my comrades all suffused With what I chose then to denominate Superfluous good feeling.
In return, They loaded me with titles of odd form And unexemplified significance, Like “Bellows-mender to Prince Æolus,” “Pipe-filler to the Hoboscholiast,” “Bread-fruit for the Non-Doing,” with one more That I remember, and a dozen more That I forget.
I may have been disturbed, I do not say that I was not annoyed, But something of the same serenity That fortified me later made me feel For their skin-pricking arrows not so much Of pain as of a vigorous defect In this world’s archery.
I might have tried, With a flat facetiousness, to demonstrate What they had only snapped at and thereby Made out of my best evidence no more Than comfortable food for their conceit; But patient wisdom frowned on argument, With a side nod for silence, and I smoked A series of incurable dry pipes While Morgan fiddled, with obnoxious care, Things that I wished he wouldn’t.
Killigrew, Drowsed with a fond abstraction, like an ass, Lay blinking at me while he grinned and made Remarks.
The learned Plunket made remarks.
It may have been for smoke that I cursed cats That night, but I have rather to believe As I lay turning, twisting, listening, And wondering, between great sleepless yawns, What possible satisfaction those dead leaves Could find in sending shadows to my room And swinging them like black rags on a line, That I, with a forlorn clear-headedness Was ekeing out probation.
I had sinned In fearing to believe what I believed, And I was paying for it.
—Whimsical, You think,—factitious; but “there is no luck, No fate, no fortune for us, but the old Unswerving and inviolable price Gets paid: God sells himself eternally, But never gives a crust,” my friend had said; And while I watched those leaves, and heard those cats, And with half mad minuteness analyzed The Captain’s attitude and then my own, I felt at length as one who throws himself Down restless on a couch when clouds are dark, And shuts his eyes to find, when he wakes up And opens them again, what seems at first An unfamiliar sunlight in his room And in his life—as if the child in him Had laughed and let him see; and then I knew Some prowling superfluity of child In me had found the child in Captain Craig And let the sunlight reach him.
While I slept, My thought reshaped itself to friendly dreams, And in the morning it was with me still.
Through March and shifting April to the time When winter first becomes a memory My friend the Captain—to my other friend’s Incredulous regret that such as he Should ever get the talons of his talk So fixed in my unfledged credulity— Kept up the peroration of his life, Not yielding at a threshold, nor, I think, Too often on the stairs.
He made me laugh Sometimes, and then again he made me weep Almost; for I had insufficiency Enough in me to make me know the truth Within the jest, and I could feel it there As well as if it were the folded note I felt between my fingers.
I had said Before that I should have to go away And leave him for the season; and his eyes Had shone with well-becoming interest At that intelligence.
There was no mist In them that I remember; but I marked An unmistakable self-questioning And a reticence of unassumed regret.
The two together made anxiety— Not selfishness, I ventured.
I should see No more of him for six or seven months, And I was there to tell him as I might What humorous provision we had made For keeping him locked up in Tilbury Town.
That finished—with a few more commonplace Prosaics on the certified event Of my return to find him young again— I left him neither vexed, I thought, with us, Nor over much at odds with destiny.
At any rate, save always for a look That I had seen too often to mistake Or to forget, he gave no other sign.
That train began to move; and as it moved, I felt a comfortable sudden change All over and inside.
Partly it seemed As if the strings of me had all at once Gone down a tone or two; and even though It made me scowl to think so trivial A touch had owned the strength to tighten them, It made me laugh to think that I was free.
But free from what—when I began to turn The question round—was more than I could say: I was no longer vexed with Killigrew, Nor more was I possessed with Captain Craig; But I was eased of some restraint, I thought, Not qualified by those amenities, And I should have to search the matter down; For I was young, and I was very keen.
So I began to smoke a bad cigar That Plunket, in his love, had given me The night before; and as I smoked I watched The flying mirrors for a mile or so, Till to the changing glimpse, now sharp, now faint, They gave me of the woodland over west, A gleam of long-forgotten strenuous years Came back, when we were Red Men on the trail, With Morgan for the big chief Wocky-Bocky; And yawning out of that I set myself To face again the loud monotonous ride That lay before me like a vista drawn Of bag-racks to the fabled end of things.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

The Flying Dutchman

 Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, 
Afloat with none to serve or to command, 
Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, 
He seeks the Vanished Land.
Alone, by the one light of his one thought, He steers to find the shore from which he came, Fearless of in what coil he may be caught On seas that have no name.
Into the night he sails, and after night There is a dawning, thought there be no sun; Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight, Unsighted, he sails on.
At last there is a lifting of the cloud Between the flood before him and the sky; And then--though he may curse the Power aloud That has no power to die-- He steers himself away from what is haunted By the old ghost of what has been before,-- Abandoning, as always, and undaunted, One fog-walled island more.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

The Companion

 Let him answer as he will,
Or be lightsome as he may,
Now nor after shall he say
Worn-out words enough to kill,
Or to lull down by their craft,
Doubt, that was born yesterday,
When he lied and when she laughed.
Let him and another name for the starlight on the snow, Let him teach her till she know That all seasons are the same, And all sheltered ways are fair,— Still, wherever she may go, Doubt will have a dwelling there.