EDWARD ARLINGTON ROBINSON

 

*

Luke Havergal

 

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,—

There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,—

And in the twilight wait for what will come.

The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some —

Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;

But go, and if you trust her she will call.

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal —

Luke Havergal.

 

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.

 

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,—
Out of a grave 1 come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,—
Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this —
To tell you this.

 

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go,—for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go! and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.

 

*

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 without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

 

*

Shadrach O’Leary

 

O’Leary was a poet—for a while:

He sang of many ladies frail and fair,

The rolling glory of their golden hair,

And emperors extinguished with a smile.

They foiled his years with many an ancient wile,

And if they limped, O’Leary didn’t care:

He turned them loose and had them everywhere,

Undoing saints and senates with their guile.

But this was not the end. A year ago
I met him—and to meet was to admire:
Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre,
And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream.
By questioning I found a man to know—
A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam.

 

*

Miniver Cheevy

 

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

 

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
      And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
      And Priam’s neighbors.

 

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
      That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,
      And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
      And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediæval grace
      Of iron clothing.

 

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
      But sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
      And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.