Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/61

 There he is who is my friend, Damned, he fancies, to the end— Vanquished, ever since a door Closed, he thought, for evermore On the life that was before. And the friend who knows him best Sees him as he sees the rest Who are striving to be wise While a Demon's arms and eyes Hold them as a web would flies. All the words of all the world, Aimed together and then hurled, Would be stiller in his ears Than a closing of still shears On a thread made out of years. But there lives another sound, More compelling, more profound; There's a music, so it seems, That assuages and redeems, More than reason, more than dreams. There's a music yet unheard By the creature of the word, Though it matters little more Than a wave-wash on a shore— Till a Demon shuts a door. So, if he be very still With his Demon, and one will, Murmurs of it may be blown To my friend who is alone In a room that I have known.