Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems
|81.||Two Gardens In Linndale||1/3/2003|
|85.||Monadnock Through The Trees||1/3/2003|
|88.||On The Way||1/3/2003|
|90.||Villanelle Of Change||1/3/2003|
|91.||The Flying Dutchman||1/3/2003|
|93.||The Tree In Pamela's Garden||1/3/2003|
|94.||The Poor Relation||1/3/2003|
|96.||The Burning Book||1/3/2003|
|98.||Old King Cole||1/3/2003|
|104.||The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame||1/3/2003|
|105.||Pasa Thalassa Thalassa||1/3/2003|
|106.||The Dark House||1/3/2003|
|117.||The Dead Village||1/3/2003|
|120.||The Pity Of The Leaves||1/3/2003|
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 ...
“Whether all towns and all who live in them—
So long as they be somewhere in this world
That we in our complacency call ours—
Are more or less the same, I leave to you.
I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile,
We’ve all two legs—and as for that, we haven’t—
There were three kinds of men where I was born:
The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross.
Now there are two kinds.”