 | Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
OCTAVES
I
To get at the eternal strength of things,And fearlessly to make strong songs of it,
45
The world would call a poet. He may sing
But roughly, and withal ungraciously;
But if he touch to life the one right chord
Wherein God's music slumbers, and awake
To truth one drowsed ambition, he sings well.
II
To mortal ears the plainest word may ringFantastic and unheard-of, and as false
And out of tune as ever to our own
Did ring the prayers of man-made maniacs;
But if that word be the plain word of Truth,
It leaves an echo that begets itself,
Persistent in itself and of itself,
Regenerate, reiterate, replete.
| Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |