Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/160

 Wherein we catch, like a bacchanale through thunder, The chanting of the new Eumenides, Implacable, renascent, farcical, Triumphant, and American. He did it, But did it in a dream. When he awoke One phrase of it remained; one verse of it Went singing through the remnant of his life Like a bag-pipe through a mad-house.—He died young, And if I ponder the small history That I have gleaned of him by scattered roads, The more do I rejoice that he died young. That measure would have chased him all his days, Defeated him, deposed him, wasted him, And shrewdly ruined him though in that ruin There would have lived, as always it has lived, In ruin as in failure, the supreme Fulfilment unexpressed, the rhythm of God That beats unheard through songs of shattered men Who dream but cannot sound it.—He declined, From all that I have ever learned of him, With absolute good-humor. No complaint, No groaning at the burden which is light, No brain-waste of impatience 'Never mind,' He whispered, 'for I might have written Odes.’ "Speaking of odes now makes me think of ballads. Your admirable Mr. Killigrew Has latterly committed what he calls A Ballad of London—London 'Town,' of course— And he has wished that I pass judgment on He says there is a 'generosity' About it, and a 'sympathetic insight;' And there are strong lines in it, so he says. But who am I that he should make of me A judge? You are his friend, and you know best