Edwin Arlington Robinson

(22 December 1869 – 6 April 1935 / Maine / United States)

Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems

81. Neighbors 1/3/2003
82. New England 1/3/2003
83. Nimmo 1/3/2003
84. Octaves 1/3/2003
85. Old King Cole 1/3/2003
86. Old Trails 1/3/2003
87. On The Night Of A Friend's Wedding 1/3/2003
88. On The Way 1/3/2003
89. Partnership 1/3/2003
90. Pasa Thalassa Thalassa 1/3/2003
91. Peace On Earth 1/3/2003
92. Rahel To Varnhagen 1/3/2003
93. Recalled 1/3/2003
94. Rembrandt To Rembrandt 1/3/2003
95. Reuben Bright 1/3/2003
96. Richard Cory 12/31/2002
97. Sainte-Nitouche 1/3/2003
98. Shadrach O'Leary 1/3/2003
99. Siege Perilous 1/3/2003
100. Sonnet 1/3/2003
101. Souvenir 1/3/2003
102. Stafford's Cabin 1/3/2003
103. Supremacy 1/3/2003
104. Tact 1/3/2003
105. Tasker Norcross 1/3/2003
106. The Altar 1/3/2003
107. The Book Of Annandale 1/3/2003
108. The Burning Book 1/3/2003
109. The Children Of The Night 1/3/2003
110. The Chorus Of Old Men In Aegus 1/3/2003
111. The Clerks 1/3/2003
112. The Clinging Vine 1/3/2003
113. The Companion 1/3/2003
114. The Corridor 1/3/2003
115. The Dark Hills 1/3/2003
116. The Dark House 1/3/2003
117. The Dead Village 1/3/2003
118. The False Gods 1/3/2003
119. The Field Of Glory 1/3/2003
120. The Flying Dutchman 1/3/2003
Best Poem of 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 ...

Read the full of Richard Cory

Dear Friends

Dear Friends, reproach me not for what I do,
Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say
That I am wearing half my life away
For bubble-work that only fools pursue.
And if my bubbles be too small for you,
Blow bigger then your own: the games we play
To fill the frittered minutes of a day,
Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

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