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    The Three Taverns
    The Three Taverns
    The Three Taverns
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    The Three Taverns

    By Edwin Arlington Robinson

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    About this ebook

    "The Three Taverns" was published in 1897 by Edwin Arlington Robinson. This ebook contains a detailed bibliography including all the publications of the Author.

    This interactive digital edition includes: Interactive Notes and Chapters, News about the Author, News about the Book, a very interesting Tag cloud of the Book and a link to connect to the Goodreads community to ask questions and share comments and opinions.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherYoucanprint Self-Publishing
    Release dateJan 7, 2016
    ISBN9788893321013
    The Three Taverns
    Author

    Edwin Arlington Robinson

    The American poet Edwin Arlington Robinson was born in 1869 in the Maine village of Head Tide and spent his school days in nearby Gardiner. Robinson developed a love of poetry in his youth, a love that endured until his death in New York in 1935. Robinson attended Harvard during 1891-1893 and published some of his early poetry in The Harvard Advocate. Although committed to becoming a writer, his path would not be an easy one. Income from Robinson's chosen pursuit was insufficient to maintain his modest lifestyle, much less meet his various responsibilities, and he worked at times as a secretary, a time-keeper, and a customs clerk, all the while continuing to write. After years of relative obscurity, he secured some incremental recognition with the publication of his poetry collections The Children of the Night, The Town Down the River, and The Man Against the Sky. During the First World War and in the decade that followed, Robinson composed a cycle of epic narrative poems, written in blank verse, that were modern in style but drew upon classic themes in substance. Against the unfolding tragedy of a world at war, Robinson composed a trilogy based on the legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. The trilogy included Merlin (1917), Lancelot (1920), and Tristram (1927). During the same period, Edwin Arlington Robinson would win the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry twice; first for his Collected Poems (published in 1921), and again for The Man Who Died Twice (published in 1924). With Tristram, he would at last reap hard-won financial rewards for his literary labors. Edwin Arlington Robinson's Arthurian cycle reflects the poet's most mature work.

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      Book preview

      The Three Taverns - Edwin Arlington Robinson

      Taverns

      The Valley of the Shadow

      There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow,

      There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget;

      There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes,

      There were sparks of recognition that are not forgotten yet.

      For at first, with an amazed and overwhelming indignation

      At a measureless malfeasance that obscurely willed it thus,

      They were lost and unacquainted — till they found themselves in others,

      Who had groped as they were groping where dim ways were perilous.

      There were lives that were as dark as are the fears and intuitions

      Of a child who knows himself and is alone with what he knows;

      There were pensioners of dreams and there were debtors of illusions,

      All to fail before the triumph of a weed that only grows.

      There were thirsting heirs of golden sieves that held not wine or water,

      And had no names in traffic or more value there than toys:

      There were blighted sons of wonder in the Valley of the Shadow,

      Where they suffered and still wondered why their wonder made no noise.

      There were slaves who dragged the shackles of a precedent unbroken,

      Demonstrating the fulfilment of unalterable schemes,

      Which had been, before the cradle, Time's inexorable tenants

      Of what were now the dusty ruins of their father's dreams.

      There were these, and there were many who had stumbled up to manhood,

      Where they saw too late the road they should have taken long ago:

      There were thwarted clerks and fiddlers in the Valley of the Shadow,

      The commemorative wreckage of what others did not know.

      And there were daughters older than the mothers who had borne them,

      Being older in their wisdom, which is older than the earth;

      And they were going forward only farther into darkness,

      Unrelieved as were the blasting obligations of their birth;

      And among them, giving always what was not for their possession,

      There were maidens, very quiet, with no quiet in their eyes:

      There were daughters of the silence in the Valley of the Shadow,

      Each an isolated item in the family sacrifice.

      There were creepers among catacombs where dull regrets were torches,

      Giving light enough to show them what was there upon the shelves —

      Where there was more for them to see than pleasure would remember

      Of something that had been alive and once had been themselves.

      There were some who stirred the ruins with a solid imprecation,

      While as many fled repentance for the promise of despair:

      There were drinkers of wrong waters in the Valley of the Shadow,

      And all the sparkling ways were dust that once had led them there.

      There were some who knew the steps of Age incredibly beside them,

      And his fingers upon shoulders that had never felt the wheel;

      And their last of empty trophies was a gilded cup of nothing,

      Which a contemplating vagabond would not have come to steal.

      Long and often had they figured for a larger valuation,

      But the size of their addition was the balance of a doubt:

      There were gentlemen of leisure in the Valley of the Shadow,

      Not allured by retrospection, disenchanted, and played out.

      And among the dark endurances of unavowed reprisals

      There were silent eyes of envy that saw little but saw well;

      And over beauty's aftermath of hazardous ambitions

      There were tears for what had vanished as they vanished where they fell.

      Not assured of what was theirs, and always hungry for the nameless,

      There were some whose only passion was for Time who made them cold:

      There were numerous fair women in the Valley of the Shadow,

      Dreaming rather less of heaven than of hell when they were old.

      Now and then, as if to scorn the common touch of common sorrow,

      There were some who gave a few the distant pity of a smile;

      And another cloaked a soul as with an ash of human embers,

      Having covered thus a treasure that would last him for a while.

      There were many by the presence of the many disaffected,

      Whose exemption was included in the weight that others bore:

      There were seekers after darkness in the Valley of the Shadow,

      And they alone were there to find what they were looking for.

      So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others,

      And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn;

      And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer

      May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn.

      For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched,

      Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed:

      There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow,

      And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed.

      The Wandering Jew

      I saw by looking in his eyes

      That they remembered everything;

      And this was how I came to know

      That he was here, still wandering.

      For though the figure and the scene

      Were never to be reconciled,

      I knew the man as I had known

      His image when I was a child.

      With evidence at every turn,

      I should have held it safe to guess

      That all the newness of New York

      Had nothing new in loneliness;

      Yet here was one who might be Noah,

      Or Nathan, or Abimelech,

      Or Lamech, out of ages lost, —

      Or, more than all, Melchizedek.

      Assured that he was none of these,

      I gave them back their names again,

      To scan once more those endless eyes

      Where all my questions ended then.

      I found in them what they revealed

      That I shall not live to forget,

      And wondered if they found in mine

      Compassion that I might regret.

      Pity, I learned, was not the least

      Of time's offending benefits

      That had now for so long impugned

      The conservation of his wits:

      Rather it was that I should yield,

      Alone, the fealty that presents

      The tribute of a tempered ear

      To an untempered eloquence.

      Before I pondered long enough

      On whence he came and who he was,

      I trembled at his ringing wealth

      Of manifold anathemas;

      I wondered, while he seared the world,

      What new defection ailed the race,

      And if it mattered how remote

      Our fathers were from such a place.

      Before there was an hour for me

      To contemplate with less concern

      The crumbling realm awaiting us

      Than his that was beyond return,

      A dawning on the dust of years

      Had shaped with an elusive light

      Mirages of remembered scenes

      That were no longer for the sight.

      For now the gloom that hid the man

      Became a daylight on his wrath,

      And one wherein my fancy viewed

      New lions ramping in his path.

      The old were dead and had no fangs,

      Wherefore he loved them — seeing not

      They

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