Children of the Night by Edwin Arlington Robinson
page 51 of 81 (62%)
page 51 of 81 (62%)
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That the glorious world I had loved was my world;
And that every man, and every woman, And every child was a different being, Wrought with a different heat, and fired With passions born of a single spirit; That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure, Nor my sorrow -- a kind of nameless pity For something, I knew not what -- their sorrow. And thus was I taught my first hard lesson, -- The lesson we suffer the most in learning: That a happy man is a man forgetful Of all the torturing ills around him. When or where I first met the woman I cherished and made my wife, no matter. Enough to say that I found her and kept her Here in my heart with as pure a devotion As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me For naming His name in your patient presence; But I feel my words, and the truth I utter Is God's own truth. I loved that woman, -- Not for her face, but for something fairer, Something diviner, I thought, than beauty: I loved the spirit -- the human something That seemed to chime with my own condition, And make soul-music when we were together; And we were never apart, from the moment My eyes flashed into her eyes the message That swept itself in a quivering answer Back through my strange lost being. My pulses Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure |
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