Edwin Arlington Robinson

Edwin Arlington

American Poet who won three Pulitzer Prizes, known for his poem "Richard Cory"

Author Quotes

Life is the game that must be played.

Love must have wings to fly away from love, and to fly back again.

No matter what we are, and what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.

Oh for a poet - for a beacon bright

She fears him, and will always ask what fated her to choose him; she meets in his engaging mask all reasons to refuse him; but what she meets and what she fears are less than are the downward years drawn slowly to the foamless weirs of age, were she to lose him.

A thousand golden sheaves were lying there, shining and still, but not for long to stay— as if a thousand girls with golden hair might rise from where they slept and go away.

She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

A word has its use, Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave.

The gods are growing old; the stars are singing Golden hair to gray green leaf to yellow leaf,—or chlorophyll to xanthophyl, to be more scientific.

Alone, he saw the slanting waves roll in, each to its impotent annihilation in a long wash of foam, until the sound become for him a warning and a torture, like a malign reproof reiterating in vain its cold and only sound of doom.

The power is yours, but not the sight; you see not upon what you tread; you have the ages for your guide, but not the wisdom to be led.

And there was no Camelot now -- now that no Queen was there, all white and gold, under an oaktree with another sunlight sifting itself in silence on her glory through the dark leaves above her where she sat, smiling at what she feared, and fearing least what most there was to fear.

The world is a spiritual kindergarten where bewildered infants are trying to spell GOD with the wrong blocks.

And thus we all are nighing the truth we fear to know: death will end our crying for friends that come and go.

There is a good deal to live for, but a man has to go through hell really to find it out.

Are you to pay for all you have with all you are?

There is nothing more to say, they have all gone away from the house on the hill.

Dark hills at evening in the west, where sunset hovers like a sound of golden horns that sang to rest old bones of warriors underground, far now from all the bannered ways where flash the legions of the sun, you fade--as if the last of days were fading, and all wars were done.

To some will come a time when change itself is beauty, if not heaven.

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,—There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,— And in the twilight wait for what will come. The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,—Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; but go, and if you trust her she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that ’s in your eyes; but there, where western glooms are gathering, the dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, and hell is more than half of paradise.

We are young and we are friends of time.

He knows much of what men paint themselves would blister in the light of what they are.

We're all of us children in a vast kindergarten trying to spell God's name with the wrong alphabet blocks.

He was himself and he had lost the speed he started with, and he was left behind.

You have made the cement of your churches out of tears and ashes, and the fabric will not stand.

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Edwin Arlington
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American Poet who won three Pulitzer Prizes, known for his poem "Richard Cory"