Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/107

 not think that I should find them there When I came back again; but there they stood, As in the days they dreamed of when young blood Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. Be sure, they met me with an ancient air, And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood About them; but the men were just as good, And just as human as they ever were. And you that ache so much to be sublime, And you that feed yourselves with your descent, What comes of all your visions and your fears? Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time, Tiering the same dull webs of discontent, Clipping the same sad alnage of the years.

first I thought there was a superfine Persuasion in his face; but the free glow That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo I" Shone joyously, and so I let it shine. He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine, But be that as it may;—I only know He talked of this and that and So-and-So, And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine. But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me, And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed In a strained way that made us cringe and wince: Then, with a wordless clogged apology That sounded half confused and half amazed, He dodged,—and I have never seen him since.