Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | ||
TWO OCTAVES
I
Not by the grief that suns and overwhelmsAll outward recognition of revealed
And righteous omnipresence are the days
Of most of us affrighted and diseased,
But rather by the common snarls of life
That come to test us and to strengthen us
In this the prentice-age of discontent,
Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame.
II
When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks downUpon a stagnant earth where listless men
Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat,
Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert,—
It seems to me somehow that God himself
Scans with a close reproach what I have done,
Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears,
And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts.
Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | ||