Works of Edwin Arlington Robinson

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

  In August without knowing it sometimes; 35

  But Isaac said the day was like a dream,

  And praised the Lord, and talked about the breeze.

  I made a fair confession of the breeze,

  And crowded casually on his thought

  The nearness of a profitable nook 40

  That I could see. First I was half inclined

  To caution him that he was growing old,

  But something that was not compassion soon

  Made plain the folly of all subterfuge.

  Isaac was old, but not so old as that. 45

  So I proposed, without an overture,

  That we be seated in the shade a while,

  And Isaac made no murmur. Soon the talk

  Was turned on Archibald, and I began

  To feel some premonitions of a kind 50

  That only childhood knows; for the old man

  Had looked at me and clutched me with his eye,

  And asked if I had ever noticed things.

  I told him that I could not think of them,

  And I knew then, by the frown that left his face 55

  Unsatisfied, that I had injured him.

  “My good young friend,” he said, “you cannot feel

  What I have seen so long. You have the eyes —

  Oh, yes — but you have not the other things:

  The sight within that never will deceive, 60

  You do not know — you have no right to know;

  The twilight warning of experience,

  The singular idea of loneliness, —

  These are not yours. But they have long been mine,

  And they have shown me now for seven years 65

  That Archibald is changing. It is not

  So much that he should come to his last hand,

  And leave the game, and go the old way down;

  But I have known him in and out so long,

  And I have seen so much of good in him 70

  That other men have shared and have not seen,

  And I have gone so far through thick and thin,

  Through cold and fire with him, that now it brings

  To this old heart of mine an ache that you

  Have not yet lived enough to know about. 75

  But even unto you, and your boy’s faith,

  Your freedom, and your untried confidence,

  A time will come to find out what it means

  To know that you are losing what was yours,

  To know that you are being left behind; 80

  And then the long contempt of innocence —

  God bless you, boy! — don’t think the worse of it

  Because an old man chatters in the shade —

  Will all be like a story you have read

  In childhood and remembered for the pictures. 85

  And when the best friend of your life goes down,

  When first you know in him the slackening

  That comes, and coming always tells the end, —

  Now in a common word that would have passed

  Uncaught from any other lips than his, 90

  Now in some trivial act of every day,

  Done as he might have done it all along

  But for a twinging little difference

  That nips you like a squirrel’s teeth — oh, yes,

  Then you will understand it well enough. 95

  But oftener it comes in other ways;

  It comes without your knowing when it comes;

  You know that he is changing, and you know

  That he is going — just as I know now

  That Archibald is going, and that I 100

  Am staying.… Look at me, my boy,

  And when the time shall come for you to see

  That I must follow after him, try then

  To think of me, to bring me back again,

  Just as I was to-day. Think of the place 105

  Where we are sitting now, and think of me —

  Think of old Isaac as you knew him then,

  When you set out with him in August once

  To see old Archibald.” — The words come back

  Almost as Isaac must have uttered them, 110

  And there comes with them a dry memory

  Of something in my throat that would not move.

  If you had asked me then to tell just why

  I made so much of Isaac and the things

  He said, I should have gone far for an answer; 115

  For I knew it was not sorrow that I felt,

  Whatever I may have wished it, or tried then

  To make myself believe. My mouth was full

  Of words, and they would have been comforting

  To Isaac, spite of my twelve years, I think; 120

  But there was not in me the willingness

  To speak them out. Therefore I watched the ground;

  And I was wondering what made the Lord

  Create a thing so nervous as an ant,

  When Isaac, with commendable unrest, 125

  Ordained that we should take the road again —

  For it was yet three miles to Archibald’s,

  And one to the first pump. I felt relieved

  All over when the old man told me that;

  I felt that he had stilled a fear of mine 130

  That those extremities of heat and cold

  Which he had long gone through with Archibald

  Had made the man impervious to both;

  But Isaac had a desert somewhere in him,

  And at the pump he thanked God for all things 135

  That He had put on earth for men to drink,

  And he drank well, — so well that I proposed

  That we go slowly lest I learn too soon

  The bitterness of being left behind,

  And all those other things. That was a joke 140

  To Isaac, and it pleased him very much;

  And that pleased me — for I was twelve years old.

  At the end of an hour’s walking after that

  The cottage of old Archibald appeared.

  Little and white and high on a smooth round hill 145

  It stood, with hackmatacks and apple-trees

  Before it, and a big barn-roof beyond;

  And over the place — trees, house, fields and all —

  Hovered an air of still simplicity

  And a fragrance of old summers — the old style 150

  That lives the while it passes. I dare say

  That I was lightly conscious of all this

  When Isaac, of a sudden, stopped himself,

  And for the long first quarter of a minute

  Gazed with incredulous eyes, forgetful quite 155

  Of breezes and of me and of all else

  Under the scorching sun but a smooth-cut field,

  Faint yellow in the distance. I was young,

  But there were a few things that I could see,

  And this was one of them.— “Well, well!” said he; 160

  And “Archibald will be surprised, I think,”

  Said I. But all my childhood subtlety

  Was lost on Isaac, for he strode along

  Like something out of Homer — powerful

  And awful on the wayside, so I thought. 165

  Also I thought how good it was to be

  So near the end of my short-legged endeavor

  To keep the pace with Isaac for five miles.

  Hardly had we turned in from the main road

  When Archibald, with one hand on his back 170

  And the other clutching his huge-headed cane,

  Came limping down to meet us.— “Well! well! well!”

  Said he; and then he looked at my red face,

  All streaked with dust and sweat, and shook my hand,

  And said it must have been a right smart walk 175

  That we had had that day from Tilbury Town. —

  “Magnificent,” said Isaac; and he told

  About the
beautiful west wind there was

  Which cooled and clarified the atmosphere.

  “You must have made it with your legs, I guess,” 180

  Said Archibald; and Isaac humored him

  With one of those infrequent smiles of his

  Which he kept in reserve, apparently,

  For Archibald alone. “But why,” said he,

  “Should Providence have cider in the world 185

  If not for such an afternoon as this?”

  And Archibald, with a soft light in his eyes,

  Replied that if he chose to go down cellar,

  There he would find eight barrels — one of which

  Was newly tapped, he said, and to his taste 190

  An honor to the fruit. Isaac approved

  Most heartily of that, and guided us

  Forthwith, as if his venerable feet

  Were measuring the turf in his own door-yard,

  Straight to the open rollway. Down we went, 195

  Out of the fiery sunshine to the gloom,

  Grateful and half sepulchral, where we found

  The barrels, like eight potent sentinels,

  Close ranged along the wall. From one of them

  A bright pine spile stuck out alluringly, 200

  And on the black flat stone, just under it,

  Glimmered a late-spilled proof that Archibald

  Had spoken from unfeigned experience.

  There was a fluted antique water-glass

  Close by, and in it, prisoned, or at rest, 205

  There was a cricket, of the brown soft sort

  That feeds on darkness. Isaac turned him out,

  And touched him with his thumb to make him jump,

  And then composedly pulled out the plug

  With such a practised hand that scarce a drop 210

  Did even touch his fingers. Then he drank

  And smacked his lips with a slow patronage

  And looked along the line of barrels there

  With a pride that may have been forgetfulness

  That they were Archibald’s and not his own. 215

  “I never twist a spigot nowadays,”

  He said, and raised the glass up to the light,

  “But I thank God for orchards.” And that glass

  Was filled repeatedly for the same hand

  Before I thought it worth while to discern 220

  Again that I was young, and that old age,

  With all his woes, had some advantages.

  “Now, Archibald,” said Isaac, when we stood

  Outside again, “I have it in my mind

  That I shall take a sort of little walk — 225

  To stretch my legs and see what you are doing.

  You stay and rest your back and tell the boy

  A story: Tell him all about the time

  In Stafford’s cabin forty years ago,

  When four of us were snowed up for ten days 230

  With only one dried haddock. Tell him all

  About it, and be wary of your back.

  Now I will go along.” — I looked up then

  At Archibald, and as I looked I saw

  Just how his nostrils widened once or twice 235

  And then grew narrow. I can hear today

  The way the old man chuckled to himself —

  Not wholesomely, not wholly to convince

  Another of his mirth, — as I can hear

  The lonely sigh that followed. — But at length 240

  He said: “The orchard now’s the place for us;

  We may find something like an apple there,

  And we shall have the shade, at any rate.”

  So there we went and there we laid ourselves

  Where the sun could not reach us; and I champed 245

  A dozen of worm-blighted astrakhans

  While Archibald said nothing — merely told

  The tale of Stafford’s cabin, which was good,

  Though “master chilly” — after his own phrase —

  Even for a day like that. But other thoughts 250

  Were moving in his mind, imperative,

  And writhing to be spoken: I could see

  The glimmer of them in a glance or two,

  Cautious, or else unconscious, that he gave

  Over his shoulder: … “Stafford and the rest — 255

  But that’s an old song now, and Archibald

  And Isaac are old men. Remember, boy,

  That we are old. Whatever we have gained,

  Or lost, or thrown away, we are old men.

  You look before you and we look behind, 260

  And we are playing life out in the shadow —

  But that’s not all of it. The sunshine lights

  A good road yet before us if we look,

  And we are doing that when least we know it;

  For both of us are children of the sun, 265

  Like you, and like the weed there at your feet.

  The shadow calls us, and it frightens us —

  We think; but there’s a light behind the stars

  And we old fellows who have dared to live,

  We see it — and we see the other things, 270

  The other things … Yes, I have seen it come

  These eight years, and these ten years, and I know

  Now that it cannot be for very long

  That Isaac will be Isaac. You have seen —

  Young as you are, you must have seen the strange 275

  Uncomfortable habit of the man?

  He’ll take my nerves and tie them in a knot

  Sometimes, and that’s not Isaac. I know that —

  And I know what it is: I get it here

  A little, in my knees, and Isaac — here.” 280

  The old man shook his head regretfully

  And laid his knuckles three times on his forehead.

  “That’s what it is: Isaac is not quite right.

  You see it, but you don’t know what it means:

  The thousand little differences — no, 285

  You do not know them, and it’s well you don’t;

  You’ll know them soon enough — God bless you, boy! —

  You’ll know them, but not all of them — not all.

  So think of them as little as you can:

  There’s nothing in them for you, or for me — 290

  But I am old and I must think of them;

  I’m in the shadow, but I don’t forget

  The light, my boy, — the light behind the stars.

  Remember that: remember that I said it;

  And when the time that you think far away 295

  Shall come for you to say it — say it, boy;

  Let there be no confusion or distrust

  In you, no snarling of a life half lived,

  Nor any cursing over broken things

  That your complaint has been the ruin of. 300

  Live to see clearly and the light will come

  To you, and as you need it. — But there, there,

  I’m going it again, as Isaac says,

  And I’ll stop now before you go to sleep. —

  Only be sure that you growl cautiously, 305

  And always where the shadow may not reach you.”

  Never shall I forget, long as I live,

  The quaint thin crack in Archibald’s voice,

  The lonely twinkle in his little eyes,

  Or the way it made me feel to be with him. 310

  I know I lay and looked for a long time

  Down through the orchard and across the road,

  Across the river and the sun-scorched hills

  That ceased in a blue forest, where the world

  Ceased with it. Now and then my fancy caught 315

  A flying glimpse of a good life beyond —

  Something of ships and sunlight, streets and singing,

  Troy falling, and the ages coming back,

  And ages coming forward: Archibald

  And Isaac wer
e good fellows in old clothes, 320

  And Agamemnon was a friend of mine;

  Ulysses coming home again to shoot

  With bows and feathered arrows made another,

  And all was as it should be. I was young.

  So I lay dreaming of what things I would, 325

  Calm and incorrigibly satisfied

  With apples and romance and ignorance,

  And the still smoke from Archibald’s clay pipe.

  There was a stillness over everything,

  As if the spirit of heat had laid its hand 330

  Upon the world and hushed it; and I felt

  Within the mightiness of the white sun

  That smote the land around us and wrought out

  A fragrance from the trees, a vital warmth

  And fullness for the time that was to come, 335

  And a glory for the world beyond the forest.

  The present and the future and the past,

  Isaac and Archibald, the burning bush,

  The Trojans and the walls of Jericho,

  Were beautifully fused; and all went well 340

  Till Archibald began to fret for Isaac

  And said it was a master day for sunstroke.

  That was enough to make a mummy smile,

  I thought; and I remained hilarious,

  In face of all precedence and respect, 345

  Till Isaac (who had come to us unheard)

  Found he had no tobacco, looked at me

  Peculiarly, and asked of Archibald

  What ailed the boy to make him chirrup so.

  From that he told us what a blessed world 350

  The Lord had given us.— “But, Archibald,”

  He added, with a sweet severity

  That made me think of peach-skins and goose-flesh,

  “I’m half afraid you cut those oats of yours

  A day or two before they were well set.” 355

  “They were set well enough,” said Archibald, —

  And I remarked the process of his nose

  Before the words came out. “But never mind

  Your neighbor’s oats: you stay here in the shade

  And rest yourself while I go find the cards. 360

  We’ll have a little game of seven-up

  And let the boy keep count.”— “We’ll have the game,

  Assuredly,” said Isaac; “and I think

  That I will have a drop of cider, also.”

  They marched away together towards the house 365

  And left me to my childish ruminations

  Upon the ways of men. I followed them

  Down cellar with my fancy, and then left them

  For a fairer vision of all things at once

  That was anon to be destroyed again 370

  By the sound of voices and of heavy feet —