



Produced by Alan R. Light, and Gary M. Johnson





THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY

A Book of Poems

by Edwin Arlington Robinson



[Note on text:  Italicized words or phrases are capitalized.
Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation
is indented two spaces.  Some obvious errors may have been corrected.]



               To
               the memory of
               WILLIAM EDWARD BUTLER





Several of the poems included in this book are reprinted
from American periodicals, as follows:  "The Gift of God",
"Old King Cole", "Another Dark Lady", and "The Unforgiven";
"Flammonde" and "The Poor Relation"; "The Clinging Vine";
"Eros Turannos" and "Bokardo"; "The Voice of Age"; "Cassandra";
"The Burning Book"; "Theophilus"; "Ben Jonson Entertains
a Man from Stratford".




Contents



     Flammonde
     The Gift of God
     The Clinging Vine
     Cassandra
     John Gorham
     Stafford's Cabin
     Hillcrest
     Old King Cole
     Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from Stratford
     Eros Turannos
     Old Trails
     The Unforgiven
     Theophilus
     Veteran Sirens
     Siege Perilous
     Another Dark Lady
     The Voice of Age
     The Dark House
     The Poor Relation
     The Burning Book
     Fragment
     Lisette and Eileen
     Llewellyn and the Tree
     Bewick Finzer
     Bokardo
     The Man against the Sky





THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY





Flammonde



     The man Flammonde, from God knows where,
     With firm address and foreign air,
     With news of nations in his talk
     And something royal in his walk,
     With glint of iron in his eyes,
     But never doubt, nor yet surprise,
     Appeared, and stayed, and held his head
     As one by kings accredited.

     Erect, with his alert repose
     About him, and about his clothes,
     He pictured all tradition hears
     Of what we owe to fifty years.
     His cleansing heritage of taste
     Paraded neither want nor waste;
     And what he needed for his fee
     To live, he borrowed graciously.

     He never told us what he was,
     Or what mischance, or other cause,
     Had banished him from better days
     To play the Prince of Castaways.
     Meanwhile he played surpassing well
     A part, for most, unplayable;
     In fine, one pauses, half afraid
     To say for certain that he played.

     For that, one may as well forego
     Conviction as to yes or no;
     Nor can I say just how intense
     Would then have been the difference
     To several, who, having striven
     In vain to get what he was given,
     Would see the stranger taken on
     By friends not easy to be won.

     Moreover, many a malcontent
     He soothed and found munificent;
     His courtesy beguiled and foiled
     Suspicion that his years were soiled;
     His mien distinguished any crowd,
     His credit strengthened when he bowed;
     And women, young and old, were fond
     Of looking at the man Flammonde.

     There was a woman in our town
     On whom the fashion was to frown;
     But while our talk renewed the tinge
     Of a long-faded scarlet fringe,
     The man Flammonde saw none of that,
     And what he saw we wondered at--
     That none of us, in her distress,
     Could hide or find our littleness.

     There was a boy that all agreed
     Had shut within him the rare seed
     Of learning.  We could understand,
     But none of us could lift a hand.
     The man Flammonde appraised the youth,
     And told a few of us the truth;
     And thereby, for a little gold,
     A flowered future was unrolled.

     There were two citizens who fought
     For years and years, and over nought;
     They made life awkward for their friends,
     And shortened their own dividends.
     The man Flammonde said what was wrong
     Should be made right; nor was it long
     Before they were again in line,
     And had each other in to dine.

     And these I mention are but four
     Of many out of many more.
     So much for them.  But what of him--
     So firm in every look and limb?
     What small satanic sort of kink
     Was in his brain?  What broken link
     Withheld him from the destinies
     That came so near to being his?

     What was he, when we came to sift
     His meaning, and to note the drift
     Of incommunicable ways
     That make us ponder while we praise?
     Why was it that his charm revealed
     Somehow the surface of a shield?
     What was it that we never caught?
     What was he, and what was he not?

     How much it was of him we met
     We cannot ever know; nor yet
     Shall all he gave us quite atone
     For what was his, and his alone;
     Nor need we now, since he knew best,
     Nourish an ethical unrest:
     Rarely at once will nature give
     The power to be Flammonde and live.

     We cannot know how much we learn
     From those who never will return,
     Until a flash of unforeseen
     Remembrance falls on what has been.
     We've each a darkening hill to climb;
     And this is why, from time to time
     In Tilbury Town, we look beyond
     Horizons for the man Flammonde.




The Gift of God



     Blessed with a joy that only she
     Of all alive shall ever know,
     She wears a proud humility
     For what it was that willed it so,--
     That her degree should be so great
     Among the favored of the Lord
     That she may scarcely bear the weight
     Of her bewildering reward.

     As one apart, immune, alone,
     Or featured for the shining ones,
     And like to none that she has known
     Of other women's other sons,--
     The firm fruition of her need,
     He shines anointed; and he blurs
     Her vision, till it seems indeed
     A sacrilege to call him hers.

     She fears a little for so much
     Of what is best, and hardly dares
     To think of him as one to touch
     With aches, indignities, and cares;
     She sees him rather at the goal,
     Still shining; and her dream foretells
     The proper shining of a soul
     Where nothing ordinary dwells.

     Perchance a canvass of the town
     Would find him far from flags and shouts,
     And leave him only the renown
     Of many smiles and many doubts;
     Perchance the crude and common tongue
     Would havoc strangely with his worth;
     But she, with innocence unwrung,
     Would read his name around the earth.

     And others, knowing how this youth
     Would shine, if love could make him great,
     When caught and tortured for the truth
     Would only writhe and hesitate;
     While she, arranging for his days
     What centuries could not fulfill,
     Transmutes him with her faith and praise,
     And has him shining where she will.

     She crowns him with her gratefulness,
     And says again that life is good;
     And should the gift of God be less
     In him than in her motherhood,
     His fame, though vague, will not be small,
     As upward through her dream he fares,
     Half clouded with a crimson fall
     Of roses thrown on marble stairs.




The Clinging Vine



     "Be calm?  And was I frantic?
      You'll have me laughing soon.
     I'm calm as this Atlantic,
      And quiet as the moon;
     I may have spoken faster
      Than once, in other days;
     For I've no more a master,
      And now--'Be calm,' he says.

     "Fear not, fear no commotion,--
      I'll be as rocks and sand;
     The moon and stars and ocean
      Will envy my command;
     No creature could be stiller
      In any kind of place
     Than I...  No, I'll not kill her;
      Her death is in her face.

     "Be happy while she has it,
      For she'll not have it long;
     A year, and then you'll pass it,
      Preparing a new song.
     And I'm a fool for prating
      Of what a year may bring,
     When more like her are waiting
      For more like you to sing.

     "You mock me with denial,
      You mean to call me hard?
     You see no room for trial
      When all my doors are barred?
     You say, and you'd say dying,
      That I dream what I know;
     And sighing, and denying,
      You'd hold my hand and go.

     "You scowl--and I don't wonder;
      I spoke too fast again;
     But you'll forgive one blunder,
      For you are like most men:
     You are,--or so you've told me,
      So many mortal times,
     That heaven ought not to hold me
      Accountable for crimes.

     "Be calm?  Was I unpleasant?
      Then I'll be more discreet,
     And grant you, for the present,
      The balm of my defeat:
     What she, with all her striving,
      Could not have brought about,
     You've done.  Your own contriving
      Has put the last light out.

     "If she were the whole story,
      If worse were not behind,
     I'd creep with you to glory,
      Believing I was blind;
     I'd creep, and go on seeming
      To be what I despise.
     You laugh, and say I'm dreaming,
      And all your laughs are lies.

     "Are women mad?  A few are,
      And if it's true you say--
     If most men are as you are--
      We'll all be mad some day.
     Be calm--and let me finish;
      There's more for you to know.
     I'll talk while you diminish,
      And listen while you grow.

     "There was a man who married
      Because he couldn't see;
     And