Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems
|82.||Two Gardens In Linndale||1/3/2003|
|86.||The Valley Of The Shadow||1/3/2003|
|87.||Monadnock Through The Trees||1/3/2003|
|94.||The Flying Dutchman||1/3/2003|
|96.||The Poor Relation||1/3/2003|
|97.||The Burning Book||1/3/2003|
|99.||Old King Cole||1/3/2003|
|103.||The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame||1/3/2003|
|104.||Pasa Thalassa Thalassa||1/3/2003|
|110.||On The Way||1/3/2003|
|117.||The Dead Village||1/3/2003|
|119.||The Pity Of The Leaves||1/3/2003|
|120.||The Dark House||1/3/2003|
Comments about Edwin Arlington Robinson
A Happy Man
When these graven lines you see,
Traveller, do not pity me;
Though I be among the dead,
Let no mournful word be said.
Children that I leave behind,
And their children, all were kind;
Near to them and to my wife,
I was happy all my life.
My three sons I married right,
And their sons I rocked at night;
Death nor sorrow never brought
Cause for one unhappy thought.
Now, and with no need of tears,
Here they leave me, full of years,--
Leave me to my quiet rest
In the region of the blest.
“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.”