Edwin Arlington Robinson

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

Edwin Arlington Robinson Poems

81. The Master 1/3/2003
82. Two Gardens In Linndale 1/3/2003
83. The Garden 1/3/2003
84. John Brown 1/3/2003
85. Three Quatrains 1/3/2003
86. Monadnock Through The Trees 1/3/2003
87. Captain Craig 1/3/2003
88. On The Way 1/3/2003
89. Octaves 1/3/2003
90. Villanelle Of Change 1/3/2003
91. Sonnet 1/3/2003
92. The Flying Dutchman 1/3/2003
93. Exit 1/3/2003
94. The Poor Relation 1/3/2003
95. The Burning Book 1/3/2003
96. The Wilderness 1/3/2003
97. Old King Cole 1/3/2003
98. Credo 1/3/2003
99. Cassandra 1/3/2003
100. John Gorham 1/3/2003
101. Two Quatrains 1/3/2003
102. The Torrent 1/3/2003
103. The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame 1/3/2003
104. Pasa Thalassa Thalassa 1/3/2003
105. The Dark House 1/3/2003
106. The Sage 1/3/2003
107. Her Eyes 1/3/2003
108. Veteran Sirens 1/3/2003
109. Twilight Song 1/3/2003
110. The Companion 1/3/2003
111. Leonora 1/3/2003
112. Merlin 1/3/2003
113. Verlaine 1/3/2003
114. The Rat 1/3/2003
115. The Long Race 1/3/2003
116. Supremacy 1/3/2003
117. The Clerks 1/3/2003
118. The Dead Village 1/3/2003
119. The Pity Of The Leaves 1/3/2003
120. Sainte-Nitouche 1/3/2003

Comments about Edwin Arlington Robinson

  • Christopher Gozdava (1/11/2012 1:20:00 PM)

    The poem A Happy Man is an example for me of poorly sounding, but a metrically correct poem. One more proof that it is not a form but a final pleasing outcome that makes any art valuable.

    30 person liked.
    32 person did not like.
Best Poem of Edwin Arlington Robinson

Richard Cory

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 ...

Read the full of Richard Cory

Dear Friends

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.

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