 | Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
“I MAKE NO MEASURE OF THE WORDS THEY SAY”
I make no measure of the words they say
Whose tongues would so mellifluously tell
With prescient zeal what I shall find in hell
When all my roving whims have had their day,—
I take no pleasure of the time they stay
Who wring my wasted minutes from the well
Of cool forgetfulness wherein they dwell
Contented there to slumber on alway;—
Whose tongues would so mellifluously tell
With prescient zeal what I shall find in hell
When all my roving whims have had their day,—
I take no pleasure of the time they stay
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Of cool forgetfulness wherein they dwell
Contented there to slumber on alway;—
But when some rare old master, with an eye
Lit with a living sunset, takes me home
To his long-tutored consciousness, there springs
Into my soul a warm serenity
Of hope that I may know, in years to come,
The true magnificence of better things.
Lit with a living sunset, takes me home
To his long-tutored consciousness, there springs
Into my soul a warm serenity
Of hope that I may know, in years to come,
The true magnificence of better things.
| Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |