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The Pity Of The Leaves
Vengeful across the cold November moors,Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak
Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek,
Reverberant through lonely corridors.
The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce,
Words out of lips that were no more to speak --
Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek
Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors.
And then there were the leaves that plagued him so!
The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside
Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now and then
They stopped, and stayed there -- just to let him know
How dead they were; but if the old man cried,
They fluttered off like withered souls of men.
(The end)
Edwin Arlington Robinson's poem: Pity Of The Leaves
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Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. A miser was he, with a miser's nose, And eyes like little dollars in the dark. His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; And when he spoke there came like sullen blows Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, As if a cur were chary of its bark. Glad for
Aaron Stark
Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. A miser was he, with a miser's nose, And eyes like little dollars in the dark. His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; And when he spoke there came like sullen blows Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, As if a cur were chary of its bark. Glad for
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Ah, -- shuddering men that falter and shrink so To look on death, -- what were the days we live, Where life is half a struggle to forgive, But for the love that finds us when we go? Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive For some vague end that never shall arrive? And is He not yet weary of the show?
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Ah, -- shuddering men that falter and shrink so To look on death, -- what were the days we live, Where life is half a struggle to forgive, But for the love that finds us when we go? Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive For some vague end that never shall arrive? And is He not yet weary of the show?
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