Edwin Arlington Robinson: Всі вірші поета

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Ben Trovato

The Deacon thought. “I know them,” he began,

“And they are all you ever heard of them—

Allurable to no sure theorem,

The scorn or the humility of man.

You say ‘Can I believe it?’—and I can;

And I’m unwilling even to condemn

The benefaction of a stratagem

Like hers—and I’m a Presbyterian.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Avon's Harvest

Fear, like a living fire that only death

Might one day cool, had now in Avon’s eyes

Been witness for so long of an invasion

That made of a gay friend whom we had known

Almost a memory, wore no other name

As yet for us than fear. Another man

Than Avon might have given to us at least

A futile opportunity for words

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Thomas Hood

The man who cloaked his bitterness within

This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries,

God never gave to look with common eyes

Upon a world of anguish and of sin:

His brother was the branded man of Lynn;

And there are woven with his jollities

The nameless and eternal tragedies

That render hope and hopelessness akin.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Another Dark Lady

Think not, because I wonder where you fled,

That I would lift a pin to see you there;

You may, for me, be prowling anywhere,

So long as you show not your little head:

No dark and evil story of the dead

Would leave you less pernicious or less fair—

Not even Lilith, with her famous hair;

And Lilith was the devil, I have read.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Ballad of Dead Friends

As we the withered ferns

By the roadway lying,

Time, the jester, spurns

All our prayers and prying —

All our tears and sighing,

Sorrow, change, and woe —

All our where-and-whying

For friends that come and go.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

How Annandale Went Out

“They called it Annandale—and I was there

To flourish, to find words, and to attend:

Liar, physician, hypocrite, and friend,

I watched him; and the sight was not so fair

As one or two that I have seen elsewhere:

An apparatus not for me to mend—

A wreck, with hell between him and the end,

Remained of Annandale; and I was there.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Souvenir

A vanished house that for an hour I knew

By some forgotten chance when I was young

Had once a glimmering window overhung

With honeysuckle wet with evening dew.

Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew,

And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung

Ferociously; and over me, among

The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Alma Mater

He knocked, and I beheld him at the door—

A vision for the gods to verify.

"What battered ancient is this," thought I,

"And when, if ever, did we meet before?"

But ask him as I might, I got no more

For answer than a moaning and a cry:

Too late to parley, but in time to die,

He staggered, and lay ahapeless on the floor.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Atherton's Gambit

The Master played the bishop’s pawn,

For jest, while Atherton looked on;

The master played this way and that,

And Atherton, amazed thereat,

Said “Now I have a thing in view

That will enlighten one or two,

And make a difference or so

In what it is they do not know.”

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Fleming Helphenstine

At first I thought there was a superfine

Persuasion in his face; but the free flow

That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!"

Shone joyously, and so I let it shine.

He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine,

But be that as it may;—I only know

He talked of this and that and So-and-So,

And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Supremacy

There is a drear and lonely tract of hell

From all the common gloom removed afar:

A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are,

Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell.

I walked among them and I knew them well:

Men I had slandered on life's little star

For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar

Upon their brows of woe ineffable.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

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.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson