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Or if unto the last of these we cleave；
Believing or protesting we believe
In such an idle and ephemeral
Florescence of the diabolical；
If； robbed of two fond old enormities；
Our being had no onward auguries；
What then were this great love of ours to say
For launching other lives to voyage again
A little farther into time and pain；
A little faster in a futile chase
For a kingdom and a power and a Race
That would have still in sight
A manifest end of ashes and eternal night？
Is this the music of the toys we shake
So loud； as if there might be no mistake
Somewhere in our indomitable will？
Are we no greater than the noise we make
Along one blind atomic pilgrimage
Whereon by crass chance billeted we go
Because our brains and bones and cartilage
Will have it so？
If this we say； then let us all be still
About our share in it； and live and die
More quietly thereby。
Where was he going； this man against the sky？
You know not； nor do I。
But this we know； if we know anything：
That we may laugh and fight and sing
And of our transience here make offering
To an orient Word that will not be erased；
Or； save in incommunicable gleams
Too permanent for dreams；
Be found or known。
No tonic and ambitious irritant
Of increase or of want
Has made an otherwise insensate waste
Of ages overthrown
A ruthless； veiled； implacable foretaste
Of other ages that are still to be
Depleted and rewarded variously
Because a few； by fate's economy；
Shall seem to move the world the way it goes；
No soft evangel of equality；
Safe cradled in a communal repose
That huddles into death and may at last
Be covered well with equatorial snows
And all for what； the devil only knows
Will aggregate an inkling to confirm
The credit of a sage or of a worm；
Or tell us why one man in five
Should have a care to stay alive
While in his heart he feels no violence
Laid on his humor and intelligence
When infant Science makes a pleasant face
And waves again that hollow toy； the Race；
No planetary trap where souls are wrought
For nothing but the sake of being caught
And sent again to nothing will attune
Itself to any key of any reason
Why man should hunger through another season
To find out why 'twere better late than soon
To go away and let the sun and moon
And all the silly stars illuminate
A place for creeping things；
And those that root and trumpet and have wings；
And herd and ruminate；
Or dive and flash and poise in rivers and seas；
Or by their loyal tails in lofty trees
Hang screeching lewd victorious derision
Of man's immortal vision。
Shall we； because Eternity records
Too vast an answer for the time…born words
We spell； whereof so many are dead that once
In our capricious lexicons
Were so alive and final； hear no more
The Word itself； the living word no man
Has ever spelt；
And few have ever felt
Without the fears and old surrenderings
And terrors that began
When Death let fall a feather from his wings
And humbled the first man？
Because the weight of our humility；
Wherefrom we gain
A little wisdom and much pain；
Falls here too sore and there too tedious；
Are we in anguish or complacency；
Not looking far enough ahead
To see by what mad couriers we are led
Along the roads of the ridiculous；
To pity ourselves and laugh at faith
And while we curse life bear it？
And if we see the soul's dead end in death；
Are we to fear it？
What folly is here that has not yet a name
Unless we say outright that we are liars？
What have we seen beyond our sunset fires
That lights again the way by which we came？
Why pay we such a price； and one we give
So clamoringly； for each racked empty day
That leads one more last human hope away；
As quiet fiends would lead past our crazed eyes
Our children to an unseen sacrifice？
If after all that we have lived and thought；
All comes to Nought；
If there be nothing after Now；
And we be nothing anyhow；
And we know that； why live？
'Twere sure but weaklings' vain distress
To suffer dungeons where so many doors
Will open on the cold eternal shores
That look sheer down
To the dark tideless floods of Nothingness
Where all who know may drown。
＇End of text。＇
From the original advertisements：
By the same author
Captain Craig； A Book of Poems
Revised edition with additional poems； 12mo； cloth； 1。25
〃There are few poets writing in English to…day whose work
is so permeated by individual charm as is Mr。 Robinson's。
Always one feels the presence of a man behind the poet
a man who knows life and people and things and writes of them clearly；
with a subtle poetic insight that is not visible in the work
of any other living writer。〃 ‘Brooklyn Daily Eagle'。
〃The ‘Book of Annandale'； a splendid poem included in this collection；
is one of the most moving emotional narratives found in modern poetry。〃
‘Review of Reviews'。
〃。 。 。 His handling of Greek themes reveals him as
a lyrical poet of inimitable charm and skill。〃 ‘Reedy's Mirror'。
〃A poem that must endure； if things that deserve long life get it。〃
‘N。 Y。 Evening Sun'。
〃Wherever you hear people who know speak of American poets 。 。 。
they assume that you take the genius and place of Edwin Arlington Robinson
as granted。 。 。 。 A man with something to say that has value and beauty。
His thought is deep and his ideas are high and stimulating。〃
‘Boston Transcript'。
By the same author
The Porcupine： A Drama in Three Acts
Cloth； 12mo； 1。25
Edwin Arlington Robinson's comedy 〃Van Zorn〃 proved him to be
one of the most accomplished of the younger generation of American dramatists。
Of this play the ‘Boston Transcript' said； 〃It is an effective presentation
of modern life in New York City； in which a poet shows
his skill of playwrighting 。 。 。 he brings to the American drama to…day
a thing it sadly lacks； and that is character。〃 In manner and technique
Mr。 Robinson's new play； 〃The Porcupine〃； recalls some of the work of Ibsen。
Written adroitly and with the literary cleverness exhibited in 〃Van Zorn〃；
it tells a story of a domestic entanglement in a dramatic fashion
well calculated to hold the reader's attention。
〃Contains all of the qualities that are said to be conspicuously lacking
in American Drama。〃 ‘N。 Y。 Evening Sun'。
Van Zorn： A Comedy in Three Acts
Cloth； 12mo； 1。25
Mr。 Robinson is known as the leader of present…day American poets。
In this delightful play he tells with a biting humor
the story of the salvation of a soul。 By clever arrangement of incident
and skillful characterization he arouses strongly the reader's curiosity；
and the suspense is admirably sustained。 The dialogue is bright；
and the construction of the plot shows the work of one well versed