The town down the river : $b A book of poems

Name: The town down the river : $b A book of poems
Author: Robinson, Edwin Arlington

Robinson, Edwin Arlington

American poetry -- 20th century

There is a question that I ask,
          And ask again:
    What hunger was half-hidden by the mask
          That he wore then?

    There was a word for me to say
          That I said not;
    And in the past there was another day
          That I forgot:

    A dreary, cold, unwholesome day,
          Racked overhead,--
    As if the world were turning the wrong way,
          And the sun dead:

    A day that comes back well enough
         Now he is gone.
    What then? Has memory no other stuff
          To seize upon?

    Wherever he may wander now
          In his despair,
    Would he be more contented in the slough
          If all were there?

    And yet he brought a kind of light
          Into the room;
    And when he left, a tinge of something bright
          Survived the gloom.

    Why will he not be where he is,
          And not with me?
    The hours that are my life are mine, not his,--
          Or used to be.

    What numerous imps invisible
          Has he at hand,
    Far-flying and forlorn as what they tell
          At his command?

    What hold of weirdness or of worth
          Can he possess,
    That he may speak from anywhere on earth
          His loneliness?

    Shall I be caught and held again
          In the old net?--
    He brought a sorry sunbeam with him then,
          But it beams yet.




AU REVOIR

(MARCH 23, 1909.)


    What libellers of destiny
      Are these who are afraid
    That something yet without a name
      Will seize him in the shade?

    Though fever-demons may compound
      Their most malefic brew,
    No fever can defeat the man
      Who still has work to do;

    Though mighty lions walk about,
      Inimical to see,
    No lion yet was ever fed
      On things that are to be.

    Wherefore, and of necessity,
      Will he meet what may come;
    And from a nation will be missed
      As others are from home.




FOR ARVIA

ON HER FIFTH BIRTHDAY


    You Eyes, you large and all-inquiring Eyes,
    That look so dubiously into me,
    And are not satisfied with what you see,
    Tell me the worst and let us have no lies:
    Tell me the secret of your scrutinies,
    And of myself. Am I a Mystery?
    Am I a Boojum--or just Company?
    What do you say? What do you think, You Eyes?
    You say not; but you think, beyond a doubt;
    And you have the whole world to think about,
    With very little time for little things.
    So let it be; and let it all be fair--
    For you, and for the rest who cannot share
    Your gold of unrevealed awakenings.




THE SUNKEN CROWN

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The town down the river : $b A book of poems

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