Marguerite C. Anderson Poet Dramatic Monologue

Richard Cory's Lament

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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