Selected Poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson

Selected Poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson

Language: English

Pages: 257

ISBN: 0020705301

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

1966 1st Ed Collier

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the ages coming back, And ages coming forward: Archibald 320    And Isaac were good fellows in old clothes, And Agamemnon was a friend of mine; Ulysses coming home again to shoot With bows and feathered arrows made another, And all was as it should be. I was young. 325    So I lay dreaming of what things I would, Calm and incorrigibly satisfied With apples and romance and ignorance, And the still smoke from Archibald’s clay pipe. There was a stillness over everything, 330    As if the

darkness in the place where she’ll be laid; But the builders, looking forward into time, could only see Darker nights for Leonora than to-night shall ever be. DOCTOR OF BILLIARDS Of all among the fallen from on high, We count you last and leave you to regain Your born dominion of a life made vain By three spheres of insidious ivory. 5    You dwindle to the lesser tragedy— Content, you say. We call, but you remain. Nothing alive gone wrong could be so plain, Or quite so blasted with

from, of all places, the White House. Kermit Roosevelt, Theodore’s son, read some of Robinson’s work at Groton, the exclusive New England preparatory school, and sent a copy of The Children of the Night to the White House. The president was immediately impressed and told Richard Watson Gilder, the prominent New York literary editor, that he wanted to give Robinson a government post of the sort that had been given to Whitman and John Burroughs. Roosevelt is reported to have once stopped a meeting

Let us go down where Martha waits for us, And let there be light shining in this house.” He rose, but Mary would not let him go: “Martha, when she came back from here, said only 260    That she heard nothing. And have you no more For Mary now than you had then for Martha? Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me? Was Nothing all you found where you have been? If that be so, what is there worse than that— 265    Or better—if that be so? And why should you, With even our love, go the same

sanctimonious sentimentality: He the great World-Musician at whose stroke The stars of morning into music broke; He from whose Being Infinite are caught All harmonies of light, and sound, and thought— Once in each age, to keep the world in tune, He strikes a note sublime. Nor late, nor soon, A godlike soul,—music and passion’s birth,— Vibrates across the discord of the earth And sets the world aright. O, these are they Who on men’s hearts with mightiest power can play— The master

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