The Man Against the Sky Part 9

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 sh.o.r.es That look sheer down To the dark tideless floods of Nothingness Where all who know may drown.

[End of text.]

From the original advertis.e.m.e.nts:

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 a.s.sume 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 in the technique of the drama.

Notes on the etext:

John Gorham:

Catches him and let's him go and eats him up for fun."-- changed to: Catches him and lets him go and eats him up for fun."--

Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from Stratford:

Whatever there be, they'll be no more of that; not changed, but noted as possibly incorrect--should it be?: Whatever there be, there'll be no more of that;

Then are as yet a picture in our vision.

changed to: Than are as yet a picture in our vision.

About the author: Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1869-1935.

From the Biographical Notes of "The Second Book of Modern Verse" (1919, 1920), edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse:

Robinson, Edwin Arlington. Born at Head Tide, Maine, Dec. 22, 1869.

Educated at Harvard University. Mr. Robinson is a psychological poet of great subtlety; his poems are usually studies of types and he has given us a remarkable series of portraits. He is recognized as one of the finest and most distinguished poets of our time. His successive volumes are: "Children of the Night", 1897; "Captain Craig", 1902; "The Town Down the River", 1910; "The Man against the Sky", 1916; "Merlin", 1917; and "Launcelot", 1920. The last-named volume was awarded a prize of five hundred dollars, given by The Lyric Society for the best book ma.n.u.script offered to it in 1919. In addition to his work in poetry, Mr. Robinson has written two prose plays, "Van Zorn", and "The Porcupine".