American Literature · American Nativism · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Edward Arlington Robinson

I cannot find my way; there is no star
In all the shrouded heavens anywhere;
And there is not a whisper in the air
Of any living voice but one so far
That I can hear it only as a bar
Of lost, imperial music, played when fair
And angel fingers wove, and unaware,
Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are.

—  Edward Arlington Robinson, from “Credo,” The Poetry of E.A. Robinson. (Modern Library; 1999 Modern Library ed edition May 11, 1999) Originally

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