Edwin Arlington Robinson
Born
in Head Tide, Lincoln county, Maine, The United States
December 22, 1869
Died
April 06, 1935
Genre
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Richard Cory
3 editions
—
published
2012
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Selected Poems (Classic, 20th-Century, Penguin)
by
24 editions
—
published
1965
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Robinson: Poems
by
5 editions
—
published
2007
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Collected Poems of Edwin A. Robinson
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Miniver Cheevy and Other Poems
2 editions
—
published
1995
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Children of the night
100 editions
—
published
1897
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Tristram
57 editions
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published
1927
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Merlin
66 editions
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published
1917
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The Man Who Died Twice
8 editions
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published
1924
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The Man against the Sky: A Book of Poems
112 editions
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published
2004
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“And thus we all are nighing
The truth we fear to know:
Death will end our crying
For friends that come and go.”
―
The truth we fear to know:
Death will end our crying
For friends that come and go.”
―
“Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, 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.”
―
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, 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.”
―
“The world is not a prison house, but a kind of spiritual kindergarten where millions of of bewildered infants are trying to spell God with the wrong blocks.”
―
―
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