Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/215

 Out of his life and in another life; And in the stillness of this other life He wondered and he drowsed. He wondered when It was, and wondered if it ever was On earth that he had known the other face The searching face, the eloquent, strange face That with a sightless beauty looked at him And with a speechless promise uttered words That were not the world's words, or any kind That he had known before. What was it, then? What was it held him fascinated him? Why should he not be human? He could sigh, And he could even groan, but what of that? There was no grief left in him. Was he glad? Yet how could he be glad, or reconciled, Or anything but wretched and undone? How could he be so frigid and inert So like a man with water in his veins Where blood had been a little while before? How could he sit shut in there like a snail? What ailed him? What was on him? Was he glad? Over and over again the question came, Unanswered and unchanged, and there he was. But what in heaven's name did it all mean? If he had lived as other men had lived, If home had ever shown itself to be The counterfeit that others had called home, Then to this undivined resource of his There were some key ; but now. . . Philosophy ? Yes, he could reason in a kind of way That he was glad for Miriam's release Much as he might be glad to see his friends Laid out around him with their grave-clothes on, And this life done for them; but something else