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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Ye sing of me still, as though my footsteps were wrought of gold, as though the very air did bend in courtesy when I passed by. Yet hearken, friend, for the tale men told of Richard Cory was but a bright veneer— a silver mask set o’er a spirit sorely worn. Oft have I walked among you, fairly clad and seeming whole, and your eyes— God knows, your many eyes— did fasten upon me with a yearning I could scarce endure. You hailed me gentleman, as if the word alone could save me from the storm that roared within. But woe unto the man whom the world deems flawless, for he becomes the prisoner of his own shining image. I moved as one bound in gilded chains— chains light to behold, yet heavier than sorrow’s stone. I learned the old art of silence, that ancient craft by which men fold their anguish beneath the tongue and smile through the breaking. Yea, I smiled— a fair, untroubled smile— while my heart beat its muffled dirge behind the rib’s dark gate. In sooth, none asked what tempest brewed in the quiet chambers of my soul. None marked the hollow in my greeting, nor the dusk gathering behind mine eyes. You saw the coin at my belt, but not the chasm at my feet. And on the eve of my undoing, when the moon hung low like a pale witness to my inward grief, I felt the weight of every expectation laid upon my mortal frame. No man may bear such splendor long without his spirit bending, cracking, finally cleaving in twain. Thus did I take my leave of this bright yet burdensome world. Think not that I sought death as a coward flees battle— nay. I sought but the quietus that life denied me, the stillness where a weary mind might at last find peace. If you would speak of me henceforth, speak not of satin gloves nor keen intelligence nor the envy of the town. Rather, utter this truth: that even the noblest-visaged man may harbor shadows deep and dire, and that compassion— aye, compassion— is the holiest gift we mortal beings can offer one another. Let my fate stand as witness, etched upon the memory of all who read: no countenance, however comely, no wealth, however vast, can mend the silent rift within a lonely soul.
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