Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/54

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THE UNFORGIVEN

I doubt if he goes after them; I doubtIf many of them ever come to him.His memories are like lamps, and they go out;Or if they burn, they flicker and are dim.
A light of other gleams he has to-dayAnd adulations of applauding hosts;A famous danger, but a safer wayThan growing old alone among the ghosts.
But we may still be glad that we were wrong:lie fooled us, and we'd shrivel to deny it;Though sometimes when old echoes ring too long,I wish the bells in Boris would be quiet.

THE UNFORGIVEN

When he, who is the unforgiven,Beheld her first, he found her fair:No promise ever dreamt in heavenCould then have lured him anywhereThat would have been away from there;And all his wits had lightly striven,Foiled with her voice, and eyes, and hair.
There's nothing in the saints and sagesTo meet the shafts her glances had,Or such as hers have had for agesTo blind a man till he be glad,And humble him till he be mad.The story would have many pages,And would be neither good nor bad.
And, having followed, you would find himWhere properly the play begins;

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