Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/362

  The call is on him for his overthrow, Say we; so let him rise, or let him drown. Poor fool! He plunges for the sunken crown, And we—we wait for what the plunge may show.

Well, we are safe enough. Why linger, then? The watery chance was his, not ours. Poor fool! Poor truant, poor Narcissus out of school; Poor jest of Ascalon; poor king of men.— The crown, if he be wearing it, may cool His arrogance, and he may sleep again.

 

 

was a poet—for a while: He sang of many ladies frail and fair, 