Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems
|81.||Mr. Flood's Party||1/3/2003|
|86.||Old King Cole||1/3/2003|
|88.||On The Night Of A Friend's Wedding||1/3/2003|
|89.||On The Way||1/3/2003|
|91.||Pasa Thalassa Thalassa||1/3/2003|
|92.||Peace On Earth||1/3/2003|
|93.||Rahel To Varnhagen||1/3/2003|
|95.||Rembrandt To Rembrandt||1/3/2003|
|108.||The Book Of Annandale||1/3/2003|
|109.||The Burning Book||1/3/2003|
|110.||The Children Of The Night||1/3/2003|
|111.||The Chorus Of Old Men In Aegus||1/3/2003|
|113.||The Clinging Vine||1/3/2003|
|116.||The Dark Hills||1/3/2003|
|117.||The Dark House||1/3/2003|
|118.||The Dead Village||1/3/2003|
|119.||The False Gods||1/3/2003|
|120.||The Field Of Glory||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 ...
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.