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ContemplativeEdwin Arlington Robinson

Octaves XVII

We lack the courage to be where we are: -- We love too much to travel on old roads, To triumph on old fields; we love too much To consecrate the magic of dead things, And yieldingly to linger by long walls Of ruin, where the ruinous moonlight That sheds a lying glory on old stones Befriends us with a wizard's enmity.
ContemplativeEdwin Arlington Robinson

Charles Carville's Eyes

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.
ContemplativeEdwin Arlington Robinson

Three Quatrains III

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.
ContemplativeEdwin Arlington Robinson

Cliff Klingenhagen

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.
ContemplativeRobinson

Sonnet. Inscribed to Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire

'TIS NOT thy flowing hair of orient gold, Nor those bright eyes, like sapphire gems that glow; Nor cheek of blushing rose, nor breast of snow, The varying passions of the heart could hold: Those locks, too soon, shall own a silv'ry ray, Those radiant orbs their magic fires forego; Insatiate TIME shall steal those tints away, Warp thy fine form, and bend thy beauties low: But the rare wonders of thy polish'd MIND Shall mock the empty menace of decay; The GEM, that in thy SPOTLESS BREAST enshrin'd, Glows with the light of intellectual ray; Shall, like the Brilliant, scorn each borrow'd aid, And deck'd with native lustre NEVER FADE!
ContemplativeRobinson

Stanzas to a Friend

AH! think no more that Life's delusive joys, Can charm my thoughts from FRIENDSHIP'S dearer claim; Or wound a heart, that scarce a wish employs, For age to censure, or discretion blame. Tir'd of the world, my weary mind recoils From splendid scenes, and transitory joys; From fell Ambition's false and fruitless toils, From hope that flatters, and from bliss that cloys. With THEE, above the taunts of empty pride, The rigid frowns to youthful error given; Content in solitude my griefs I'll hide, Thy voice my counsellor­thy smiles my Heaven. With thee I'll hail the morn's returning ray, Or climb the dewy mountain bleak and cold; On the smooth lake observe the sun-beams play,
ContemplativeRobinson

Sonnet XLIII: While From the Dizzy Precipice

While from the dizzy precipice I gaze, The world receding from my pensive eyes, High o'er my head the tyrant eagle flies, Cloth'd in the sinking sun's transcendent blaze! The meek-ey'd moon, 'midst clouds of amber plays As o'er the purpling plains of light she hies, Till the last stream of living lustre dies, And the cool concave owns her temper'd rays! So shall this glowing, palpitating soul, Welcome returning Reason's placid beam, While o'er my breast the waves Lethean roll, To calm rebellious Fancy's fev'rish dream; Then shall my Lyre disdain love's dread control, And loftier passions, prompt the loftier theme!
ContemplativeRobinson

Stanzas to the Rose

SWEET PICTURE of Life's chequer'd hour! Ah, wherefore droop thy blushing head? Tell me, oh tell me, hap'less flow'r, Is it because thy charms are fled? Come, gentle ROSE, and learn from me A lesson of Philosophy. Thy scented buds, LIFE'S joys disclose; They strew our paths with magic sweets; Where many a thorn like thine, fair ROSE, Full oft the weary wand'rer meets; And when he sees thy charms depart, He feels thy thorn within his heart. When Morn's bright torch illum'd the sky, Vainly thy flaunting buds display'd Enamell'd leaves of crimson die, Ill-fated blossoms doom'd to fade;
ContemplativeRobinson

Stanzas

WHEN fragrant gales and summer show'rs Call'd forth the sweetly scented flow'rs; When ripen'd sheaves of golden grain, Strew'd their rich treasures o'er the plain; When the full grape did nectar yield, In tepid drops of purple hue; When the thick grove, and thirsty field, Drank the soft show'r and bloom'd a-new; O then my joyful heart did say, "Sure this is Nature's Holy-day!" But when the yellow leaf did fade, And every gentle flow'r decay'd; When whistling winds, and drenching rain, Swept with rude force the naked plain; When o'er the desolated scene, I saw the drifted snow descend;

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