 | Collected poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
HECTOR KANE
If Hector Kane at eighty-five
Was not the youngest man alive,
Appearance had anointed him
With undiminished youth.
To look at him was to believe
That as we ask we may receive,
Annoyed by no such evil whim
As death, or time, or truth.
Was not the youngest man alive,
Appearance had anointed him
With undiminished youth.
To look at him was to believe
That as we ask we may receive,
Annoyed by no such evil whim
As death, or time, or truth.
Which is to doubt, if any of you,
Seeing him, had believed him true.
He was too young to be so old,
Too old to be so fair.
Beneath a snowy crown of curls,
His cheeks that might have been a girl's
Were certainly, if truth were told,
Too rose-like to be there.
Seeing him, had believed him true.
He was too young to be so old,
Too old to be so fair.
Beneath a snowy crown of curls,
His cheeks that might have been a girl's
Were certainly, if truth were told,
Too rose-like to be there.
But Hector was a child of earth,
And would have held of little worth
Reflection or misgiving cast
On his reality.
It was a melancholy crime,
No less, to torture life with time;
And whoso did was first and last
Creation's enemy.
And would have held of little worth
Reflection or misgiving cast
On his reality.
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No less, to torture life with time;
And whoso did was first and last
Creation's enemy.
He told us, one convivial night,
When younger men were not so bright
Or brisk as he, how he had spared
His heart a world of pain,
Merely by seeing always clear
What most it was he wanted here,
And having it when most he cared,
And having it again.
When younger men were not so bright
Or brisk as he, how he had spared
His heart a world of pain,
Merely by seeing always clear
What most it was he wanted here,
And having it when most he cared,
And having it again.
“You children of threescore or so,”
He said, “had best begin to know
If your infirmities that ache,
Your lethargies and fears,
And doubts, are mostly more or less
Like things a drunkard in distress
May count with horror, while you shake
For counting days and years.
He said, “had best begin to know
If your infirmities that ache,
Your lethargies and fears,
And doubts, are mostly more or less
Like things a drunkard in distress
May count with horror, while you shake
For counting days and years.
“Nothing was ever true for me
Until I found it so,” said he;
“So time for me has always been
Four letters of a word.
Time? Is it anything to eat?
Or maybe it has legs and feet,
To go so as to be unseen;
Or maybe it's a bird.
Until I found it so,” said he;
“So time for me has always been
Four letters of a word.
Time? Is it anything to eat?
Or maybe it has legs and feet,
To go so as to be unseen;
Or maybe it's a bird.
“Years? I have never seen such things.
Why let your fancy give them wings
To lift you from experience
And carry you astray?
If only you will not be old,
Your mines will give you more than gold,
And for a cheerful diligence
Will keep the worm away.
Why let your fancy give them wings
To lift you from experience
And carry you astray?
1212
Your mines will give you more than gold,
And for a cheerful diligence
Will keep the worm away.
“We die of what we eat and drink,
But more we die of what we think;
For which you see me still as young
At heart as heretofore.
So here's to what's awaiting us—
Cras ingens iterabimus—”
A clutch of wonder gripped his tongue,
And Hector said no more.
But more we die of what we think;
For which you see me still as young
At heart as heretofore.
So here's to what's awaiting us—
Cras ingens iterabimus—”
A clutch of wonder gripped his tongue,
And Hector said no more.
Serene and inarticulate
He lay, for us to contemplate.
The mortal trick, we all agreed,
Was never better turned:
Bequeathing us to time and care,
He told us yet that we were there
To make as much as we could read
Of all that he had learned.
He lay, for us to contemplate.
The mortal trick, we all agreed,
Was never better turned:
Bequeathing us to time and care,
He told us yet that we were there
To make as much as we could read
Of all that he had learned.
| Collected poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |