Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/342

 A vermin region by the/ stars abhorred, Where falls the flaming word By which I consecrate with unsuccess An acreage of God's forgetfulness, Left here above the foam and long ago Made right for my duress; Where soon the sea, My foaming and long-clamoring enemy, Will have within the cryptic, old embrace Of her triumphant arms—a memory. Why then, the place? What forage of the sky or of the shore Will make it any more, To me, than my award of what was left Of number, time, and space? And what is on me now that I should heed The durance or the silence or the scorn? I was the gardener who had the seed Which holds within its heart the food and fire That gives to man a glimpse of his desire; And I have tilled, indeed, Much land, where men may say that I have planted Unsparingly my corn— For a world harvest-haunted And for a world unborn. Meanwhile, am I to view, as at a play, Through smoke the funeral flames of yesterday, And think them far away? Am I to doubt and yet be given to know That where my demon guides me, there I go?— An island? Be it so. For islands, after all is said and done, Tell but a wilder game that was begun,