Edwin Arlington Robinson

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

Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems

121. The Garden 1/3/2003
122. The Gift Of God 1/3/2003
123. The Growth Of Lorraine 1/3/2003
124. The House On The Hill 1/3/2003
125. The Klondike 1/3/2003
126. The Long Race 1/3/2003
127. The Man Against The Sky 1/3/2003
128. The Master 1/3/2003
129. The Mill 1/3/2003
130. The New Tenants 1/3/2003
131. The Old King's New Jester 1/3/2003
132. The Pilot 1/3/2003
133. The Pity Of The Leaves 1/3/2003
134. The Poor Relation 1/3/2003
135. The Rat 1/3/2003
136. The Return Of Morgan And Fingal 1/3/2003
137. The Revealer 1/3/2003
138. The Sage 1/3/2003
139. The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame 1/3/2003
140. The Sunken Crown 1/3/2003
141. The Tavern 1/3/2003
142. The Three Taverns 1/3/2003
143. The Torrent 1/3/2003
144. The Town Down By The River 1/3/2003
145. The Tree In Pamela's Garden 1/3/2003
146. The Unforgiven 1/3/2003
147. The Valley Of The Shadow 1/3/2003
148. The Voice Of Age 1/3/2003
149. The Wandering Jew 1/3/2003
150. The Whip 1/3/2003
151. The White Lights 1/3/2003
152. The Wilderness 1/3/2003
153. The Wise Brothers 1/3/2003
154. The Woman And The Wife 1/3/2003
155. The World 1/3/2003
156. Theophilus 1/3/2003
157. Thomas Hood 1/3/2003
158. Three Quatrains 1/3/2003
159. Twilight Song 1/3/2003
160. Two Gardens In Linndale 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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