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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381348" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Late Summer</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">(ALCAICS)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Confused, he found her lavishing feminine <br>Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; <br>And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors <br>Be as they were, without end, her playthings? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And why were dead years hungrily telling her <br>Lies of the dead, who told them again to her? <br>If now she knew, there might be kindness <br>Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A little faith in him, and the ruinous <br>Past would be for time to annihilate,<br>And wash out, like a tide that washes <br>Out of the sand what a child has drawn there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">God, what a shining handful of happiness, <br>Made out of days and out of eternities, <br>Were now the pulsing end of patience—<br>Could he but have what a ghost had stolen! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What was a man before him, or ten of them, <br>While he was here alive who could answer them, <br>And in their teeth fling confirmations <br>Harder than agates against an egg-shell?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now the man was dead, and would come again <br>Never, though she might honor ineffably <br>The flimsy wraith of him she conjured <br>Out of a dream with his wand of absence. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And if the truth were now but a mummery,<br>Meriting pride’s implacable irony, <br>So much the worse for pride. Moreover, <br>Save her or fail, there was conscience always. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence, <br>Imploring to be sheltered and credited,<br>Were not amiss when she revealed them. <br>Whether she struggled or not, he saw them. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Also, he saw that while she was hearing him <br>Her eyes had more and more of the past in them; <br>And while he told what cautious honor<br>Told him was all he had best be sure of, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He wondered once or twice, inadvertently, <br>Where shifting winds were driving his argosies, <br>Long anchored and as long unladen, <br>Over the foam for the golden chances.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“If men were not for killing so carelessly, <br>And women were for wiser endurances,” <br>He said, “we might have yet a world here <br>Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness,<br>And we were less forbidden to look at it, <br>We might not have to look.” He stared then <br>Down at the sand where the tide threw forward </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly <br>Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough,<br>Although he knew he might be silenced <br>Out of all calm; and the night was coming. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“I climb for you the peak of his infamy <br>That you may choose your fall if you cling to it. <br>No more for me unless you say more.<br>All you have left of a dream defends you: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“The truth may be as evil an augury <br>As it was needful now for the two of us. <br>We cannot have the dead between us. <br>Tell me to go, and I go.”—She pondered:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“What you believe is right for the two of us <br>Makes it as right that you are not one of us. <br>If this be needful truth you tell me, <br>Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter.” </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She gazed away where shadows were covering<br>The whole cold ocean’s healing indifference. <br>No ship was coming. When the darkness <br>Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edwin+Arlington+Robinson">Edwin Arlington Robinson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381348" data-title="Late Summer de Edwin Arlington Robinson" data-description="(ALCAICS)


Confused, he found her lavishing feminine 
Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; 
And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors 
Be as they were, without end, her playthings? 

And why were dead years hungrily telling her 
Lies of..."></div>
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