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profound Than any that was in fiddles and brass horns。
〃He knew； and in his knowledge there was death。 He knew there was a
region all around him That lay outside man's havoc and affairs； And yet
was not all hostile to their tumult； Where poets would have served and
honored him； And saved him； had there been anything to save。 But there
was nothing； and his tethered range Was only a small desert。 Kings of song
Are not for thrones in deserts。 Towers of sound And flowers of sense are
but a waste of heaven Where there is none to know them from the rocks
And sand…grass of his own monotony That makes earth less than earth。 He
could see that； And he could see no more。 The captured light That may
have been or not； for all he cared； The song that is in sculpture was not his；
But only； to his God…forgotten eyes； One more immortal nonsense in a
world Where all was mortal； or had best be so； And so be done with。 ‘Art；'
he would have said； ‘Is not life； and must therefore be a lie；' And with a
few profundities like that He would have controverted and dismissed The
benefit of the Greeks。 He had heard of them； As he had heard of his
aspiring soul Never to the perceptible advantage； In his esteem； of either。
‘Faith；' he said； Or would have said if he had thought of it； ‘Lives in the
same house with Philosophy； Where the two feed on scraps and are forlorn
As orphans after war。 He could see stars； On a clear night； but he had not
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an eye To see beyond them。 He could hear spoken words； But had no ear
for silence when alone。 He could eat food of which he knew the savor； But
had no palate for the Bread of Life； That human desperation； to his
thinking； Made famous long ago； having no other。 Now do you see？ Do
you begin to see？〃
I told him that I did begin to see； And I was nearer than I should have
been To laughing at his malign inclusiveness； When I considered that； with
all our speed； We are not laughing yet at funerals。 I see him now as I could
see him then； And I see now that it was good for me； As it was good for
him； that I was quiet； For Time's eye was on Ferguson； and the shaft Of its
inquiring hesitancy had touched him； Or so I chose to fancy more than
once Before he told of Norcross。 When the word Of his release （he would
have called it so） Made half an inch of news； there were no tears That are
recorded。 Women there may have been To wish him back； though I should
say； not knowing； The few there were to mourn were not for love； And
were not lovely。 Nothing of them； at least； Was in the meagre legend that I
gathered Years after； when a chance of travel took me So near the region
of his nativity That a few miles of leisure brought me there； For there I
found a friendly citizen Who led me to his house among the trees That
were above a railroad and a river。 Square as a box and chillier than a tomb
It was indeed； to look at or to live in All which had I been told。
〃Ferguson died；〃 The stranger said； 〃and then there was an auction。 I live
here； but I've never yet been warm。 Remember him？ Yes； I remember him。
I knew him as a man may know a tree For twenty years。 He may have
held himself A little high when he was here； but now 。 。 。 Yes； I remember
Ferguson。 Oh； yes。〃 Others； I found； remembered Ferguson； But none of
them had heard of Tasker Norcross。
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The Three Taverns A Book of Poems By Edwin Arlington Robinson
A Song at Shannon's
Two men came out of Shannon's having known The faces of each
other for as long As they had listened there to an old song； Sung thinly in a
wastrel monotone By some unhappy night…bird； who had flown Too many
times and with a wing too strong To save himself； and so done heavy
wrong To more frail elements than his alone。
Slowly away they went； leaving behind More light than was before
them。 Neither met The other's eyes again or said a word。 Each to his
loneliness or to his kind； Went his own way； and with his own regret； Not
knowing what the other may have heard。
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Souvenir
A vanished house that for an hour I knew By some forgotten chance
when I was young Had once a glimmering window overhung With
honeysuckle wet with evening dew。 Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew；
And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung Ferociously； and over me；
among The moths and mysteries； a blurred bat flew。
Somewhere within there were dim presences Of days that hovered and
of years gone by。 I waited； and between their silences There was an
evanescent faded noise； And though a child； I knew it was the voice Of
one whose occupation was to die。
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Discovery
We told of him as one who should have soared And seen for us the
devastating light Whereof there is not either day or night； And shared with
us the glamour of the Word That fell once upon Amos to record For men at
ease in Zion； when the sight Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might
Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord。
Assured somehow that he would make us wise； Our pleasure was to
wait； and our surprise Was hard when we confessed the dry return Of his
regret。 For we were still to learn That earth has not a school where we may
go For wisdom； or for more than we may know。
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Firelight
Ten years together without yet a cloud； They seek each other's eyes at
intervals Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls For love's obliteration
of the crowd。 Serenely and perennially endowed And bowered as few may
be； their joy recalls No snake； no sword； and over them there falls The
blessing of what neither says aloud。
Wiser for silence； they were not so glad Were she to read the graven
tale of lines On the wan face of one somewhere alone； Nor were they more
content could he have had Her thoughts a