Edwin Arlington Robinson(22 December 1869 - 6 April 1935 / Maine / United States)
- by Edwin Arlington Robinson226
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 without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
- by Edwin Arlington Robinson222
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.
“Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live, He felt the other woman in the fur That now the wife had on. Could she forgive All that? Apparently. Her rings were gone, Of course; and when he found that she had none, He smiled—as he had never smiled at her.”
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