Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 113.djvu/226

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THE CLINGING VINE

BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Be calm? And was I frantic?You'll have me laughing soon. I'm calm as this Atlantic,And quiet as the moon; I may have spoken fasterThan once, in other days; For I've no more a master,And now—'Be calm,' he says.
Fear not,—fear no commotion,—I'll be as rocks and sand; The moon and stars and oceanWill envy my command; No creature could be stillerIn any kind of place Than I . . . No, I'll not kill her;Her death is in her face.
Be happy while she has it,For she'll not have it long;A year, and then you'll pass it,Preparing a new song.And I'm a fool for pratingOf what a year may bring,When more like her are waitingFor more like you to sing.
You mock me with denial, You dare to call me hard?You see no room for trialWhen all my doors are barred?You say, and you'd say dying,That I dream what I know,—
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