Edwin Arlington Robinson

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

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.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Bronze Star - 6,628 Points Frank Avon (8/24/2014 1:18:00 PM)

    I'm sorry Robinson isn't best known for this poem, which is so many ways is better than either Richard Cory or Miniver Cheevy. This one is so precise in its realism, so exact; it is, at the same time, charming and sad, humorous and tragic. I like old Eben. Thanks to Robinson, I understand him. He is not to be pitied; he should be respected. Where are those neighbors who honored him long ago - and should still? (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Francine Moshi (10/1/2011 12:18:00 PM)

    We come alone into the world, well really me & I. Subject of unknown replicator(s) . And through life we go and alone we shall go out of it. Satisfy that human condition, as much as you can Mr. Flood. It's your life. (Report) Reply

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