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 I 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.
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.
Once, when I wandered in the woods alone, An old man tottered up to me and said, "Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made For Amaryllis." There was in the tone Of his complaint such quaver and such moan That I took pity on him and obeyed, And long stood looking where his hands had laid An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone. Far out beyond the forest I could hear The calling of loud progress, and the bold Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear; But though the trumpets of the world were glad, It made me lonely and it made me sad To think that Amaryllis had grown old.
Vengeful across the cold November moors, Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek, Reverberant through lonely corridors. The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce, Words out of lips that were no more to speak -- Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors. And then there were the leaves that plagued him so! The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now and then They stopped, and stayed there -- just to let him know How dead they were; but if the old man cried, They fluttered off like withered souls of men.
Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. A miser was he, with a miser's nose, And eyes like little dollars in the dark. His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; And when he spoke there came like sullen blows Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, As if a cur were chary of its bark. Glad for the murmur of his hard renown, Year after year he shambled through the town, -- A loveless exile moving with a staff; And oftentimes there crept into his ears A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, -- And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.
Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine With him one day; and after soup and meat, And all the other things there were to eat, Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine And one with wormwood. Then, without a sign For me to choose at all, he took the draught Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed It off, and said the other one was mine. And when I asked him what the deuce he meant By doing that, he only looked at me And grinned, and said it was a way of his. And though I know the fellow, I have spent Long time a-wondering when I shall be As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is.
We cannot crown ourselves with everything, Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel: No matter what we are, or what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.
A melancholy face Charles Carville had, But not so melancholy as it seemed, -- When once you knew him, -- for his mouth redeemed His insufficient eyes, forever sad: In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad, -- Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed; His mouth was all of him that ever beamed, His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad. He never was a fellow that said much, And half of what he did say was not heard By many of us: we were out of touch With all his whims and all his theories Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word.
Edwin Arlington Robinson was an American poet born in 1869 and died in 1935. He is known for narrative poems and character studies, frequently set in the fictional Tilbury Town, a small New England community. His poetry often focuses on themes of isolation, unfulfilled lives, and the psychological struggles of individuals. Robinson employed traditional verse forms while introducing modern psychological realism and irony. He published several collections, including 'The Children of the Night' (1897) and 'The Man Against the Sky' (1916). His long narrative poem 'Tristram' (1927) received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, as did his Collected Poems (1921) and 'The Man Who Died Twice' (1924). Robinson is regarded as a significant figure in the transition from nineteenth-century to twentieth-century American poetry. His work influenced later poets such as Robert Frost and W. H. Auden.
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