Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/182

 Were darkly calling over the still straits Between him and irrevocable shores Where now there was no lamp to fade for him, No call to give him answer. We were there Before him, but his eyes were not much turned On us ; nor was it very much to us That he began to speak the broken words, The scattered words, that he had left in him. "So it has come to this ? And what is this ? Death, do you call it ? Death ? And what is death ? Why do you look like that at me again? Why do you shrink your brows and shut your lips ? If it be fear, then I can do no more Than hope for all of you that you may find Your promise of the sun; if it be grief You feel, to think that this old face of mine May never look at you and laugh again, Then tell me why it is that you have gone So long with me, and followed me so far, And had me to believe you took my words For more than ever misers did their gold ?" He listened, but his eyes were far from us − Too far to make us turn to Killigrew, Or search the futile shelves of our own thoughts For golden-labeled insincerities To make placebos of. The marrowy sense Of slow November rain that splashed against The shingles and the glass reminded us That we had brought umbrellas. He continued: "Oh, can it be that I, too credulous, Have made myself believe that you believe Yourselves to be the men that you are not? I prove and I prize well your friendliness,