Edwin Arlington Robinson
Mr. Flood's Party
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn.
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He sat the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr. Flood--
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did
And Eben apparently thouht so too;
For soon among the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang--
"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered, and the song was done.
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
Edwin Arlington Robinson's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Mr. Flood's Party by Edwin Arlington Robinson )
Did you read them?
- Separation of the women who resemble sui.., Dr.V.K. Kanniappan
- The Light The Night Sows, Walid Lounes Bouzerar
- Lasting Sorrow, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Heart condition, Ibrar Siddiqi
- A Poet's Echo, Nate Flying Owl
- did the clergy man create chaos when the.., Mandolyn ...
- Path Of No Resistance, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- If Love... The This Follow...., Luis Estable
- Can This Be My Mistake, Luis Estable
- He was a carpenter. He worked with wood., Royston Allen
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Alone, Edgar Allan Poe
- Farewell, Anne Brontë
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Footsteps of Angels, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)