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Best Famous Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Edwin Arlington Robinson poems. This is a select list of the best famous Edwin Arlington Robinson poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Edwin Arlington Robinson poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Edwin Arlington Robinson poems.

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Written 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.

Written 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.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |


 They have made for Leonora this low dwelling in the ground, 
And with cedar they have woven the four walls round.
Like a little dryad hiding she’ll be wrapped all in green, Better kept and longer valued than by ways that would have been.
They will come with many roses in the early afternoon, They will come with pinks and lilies and with Leonora soon; And as long as beauty’s garments over beauty’s limbs are thrown, There’ll be lilies that are liars, and the rose will have its own.
There will be a wondrous quiet in the house that they have made, And to-night will be a darkness in the place where she’ll be laid; But the builders, looking forward into time, could only see Darker nights for Leonora than to-night shall ever be.

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Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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?

Written 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.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |


 Through an ascending emptiness of night,
Leaving the flesh and complacent mind
Together in their suffciency behind,
The soul of man went up to a far height;
And where those others would have had no sight
Or sense of else than terror for the blind,
Soul met the Will, and was again consigned
To the surpreme illusion which is right.
"And what goes on up there," the Mind inquired, "That I know not already to be true?"— "More than enough, but not enough for you," Said the descending Soul: "Here in the dark, Where you are least revealed when most admired, You may still be the bellows and the spark.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |


 There is a drear and lonely tract of hell 
From all the common gloom removed afar: 
A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, 
Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell.
I walked among them and I knew them well: Men I had slandered on life's little star For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar Upon their brows of woe ineffable.
But as I went majestic on my way, Into the dark they vanished, one by one, Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, The dream of all my glory was undone,-- And, with a fool's importunate dismay, I heard the dead men singing in the sun.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |


 Christmas was in the air and all was well
With him, but for a few confusing flaws
In divers of God's images.
Because A friend of his would neither buy nor sell, Was he to answer for the axe that fell? He pondered; and the reason for it was, Partly, a slowly freezing Santa Claus Upon the corner, with his beard and bell.
Acknowledging an improvident surprise, He magnified a fancy that he wished The friend whom he had wrecked were here again.
Not sure of that, he found a compromise; And from the fulness of his heart he fished A dime for Jesus who had died for men.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Luke Havergal

 Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, --
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, --
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some -- Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal -- Luke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies -- In eastern skies.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this, -- Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, -- Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this -- To tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, -- for the winds are tearing them away, -- Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal -- Luke Havergal.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |


 Ten years together without yet a cloud,
They seek each other's eyes at intervals
Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls
For love's obliteration of the crowd.
Serenely and perennially endowed And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls No snake, no sword; and over them there falls The blessing of what neither says aloud.
Wiser for silence, they were not so glad Were she to read the graven tale of lines On the wan face of one somewhere alone; Nor were they more content could he have had Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines Apart, and would be hers if he had known.