Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/341

 Last night there were a dozen on that shelf, And two of them were living in my hat. Look! Now he goes, but he'll come back Ha? But he will, I say. . . Il reviendra-z-à Pâques, Ou a la, Trinité . . . Be very sure that he'll return again; For said the Lord : Imprimis, we have rats, And having rats, we have rain. So on the seventh day He rested, and made Pain. Man, if you love the Lord, afid if the Lord Love liars, I will have you at your word And swallow it. Voilà. Bah! Where do I say it is That I have lain so long? Where do I count myself among the dead, As once above the living and the strong? And what is this that comes and goes, Fades and swells and overflows, Like music underneath and overhead? What is it in me now that rings and roars Like fever-laden wine? What ruinous tavern-shine Is this that lights me far from worlds and wars And women that were mine? Where do I say it is That Time has made my bed ? What lowering outland hostelry is this For one the stars have disinherited? An island, I have said: A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires Are rained on, like old fires: