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Showing posts with label Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson. Show all posts

Firelight -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

       
(Poem #1874) Firelight
 Ten years together without yet a cloud
 They seek each other's eyes at intervals
 Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls
 For love's obliteration of the crowd.
 Serenely and perennially endowed
 And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls
 No snake, no sword; and over them there falls
 The blessing of what neither says aloud.

 Wiser for silence, they were not so glad
 Were she to read the graven tale of lines
 On the wan face of one somewhere alone;
 Nor were they more content could he have had
 Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines
 Apart, and would be hers if he had known.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
For those familiar with Robinson's work, today's poem treads familiar
territory - he was at his best when depicting that class of people held up
to common admiration (and perhaps a little envy), and then taking a brief,
but devastating glance beneath the alluring surface.

It would be easy to call him cynical - very few poets manage to strip
humanity's various comfortable masks away as economically and effectively as
he does - but there is always a genuine strain of sympathy to his poetry, a
compelling sense of "there, but for the grace of God, go I", that belies any
such charge. Rather, I believe the import of his poetry is not "see these
men you have held up and adulated - rejoice, for they are no better off than
you", but instead, "you who have hidden your pain from the world beneath a
mask of gaiety, take comfort, for you are far from alone".

martin

[Links]

Wikipedia article:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_Arlington_Robinson
  Edwin Arlington Robinson (December 22, 1869 - April 6, 1935) was an American
    poet, who won three Pulitzer Prizes for his work.

For a lighter take on the theme, there's Christine Lavin's classic "Good Thing
He Can't Read My Mind":
  [broken link] http://www.christinelavin.com/00051501goodthing.html

Richard Cory -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Guest poem submitted by Siddarth Kalasapur:
(Poem #1317) Richard Cory
 Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
 We people on the pavement looked at him:
 He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
 Clean favored, and imperially slim.

 And he was always quietly arrayed,
 And he was always human when he talked;
 But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
 "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

 And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
 And admirably schooled in every grace;
 In fine we thought that he was everything
 To make us wish that we were in his place.

 So on we worked, and waited for the light,
 And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
 And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
 Went home and put a bullet through his head.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
Here's a poem that I first read back in 1994, and it has been one of my
favorites since. Isn't there a Simon & Garfunkel song titled "Richard
Cory"? [Yes; see notes -t.] E. A. Robinson is not among my favorite
poets (e e cummings and Kahlil Gibran are). This poem however, always
reminds me of a friend who, in 1994 who actually put a bullet thruugh
his head - and we were left to speculate the reason, for it seemed like
he had everything. He was indeed quietly arrayed and human, rich and
graceful, well-liked and well-schooled. To date we don't know the reason
my friend did what he did - one calm summer night - and this poem will
serve as a constant reminder that things aren't always what they appear
to be.

-Siddarth.

[Notes]

"Richard Cory" is from Robinson's collection "The Children Of The
Night". The poem was written in 1897, after Robinson read a newspaper
clipping of one Frank Avery, who "blew his bowels out with a shotgun".

Here's Paul Simon's version of the story, from the "Sounds of Silence"
album, 1966:

 "Richard Cory"

 They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town,
 With political connections to spread his wealth around.
 Born into society, a banker's only child,
 He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style.

    But I work in his factory
    And I curse the life I'm living
    And I curse my poverty
    And I wish that I could be,
    Oh, I wish that I could be,
    Oh, I wish that I could be
    Richard Cory.

 The papers print his picture almost everywhere he goes:
 Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show.
 And the rumor of his parties and the orgies on his yacht!
 Oh, he surely must be happy with everything he's got.

    But I work in his factory
    And I curse the life I'm living
    And I curse my poverty
    And I wish that I could be,
    Oh, I wish that I could be,
    Oh, I wish that I could be
    Richard Cory.

 He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch,
 And they were grateful for his patronage and thanked him very much,
 So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read:
 "Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head."

    But I work in his factory
    And I curse the life I'm living
    And I curse my poverty
    And I wish that I could be,
    Oh, I wish that I could be,
    Oh, I wish that I could be
    Richard Cory.

        -- Paul Simon

Spencer Leigh, in "Paul Simon - Now and Then" (1973) comments:

"Simon also retains this surprise but in neither version do we receive
any explanation as to why Richard Cory should have shot himself.
Robinson dwells on his material possessions and Simon updates this to
include orgies and yachts. Simon may well have added a subtlety to
Robinson's poem by repeating the chorus after Richard Cory has shot
himself, thus implying that the workers also envy Cory's courage in
being able to do away with himself.

It is easy to see why E.A. Robinson's poetry appealed to Paul Simon.
They both understood this feeling of being lonely in a crowd. Indeed a
university thesis in years to come may well show the parallels between
the two writers and songs like 'A Most Peculiar Man' and 'I Am A Rock'
certainly mark Simon out as a latter-day Robinson."

        -- [broken link] http://www.ckk.chalmers.se/guitar/richard.cory.html

Luke Havergal -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Guest poem sent in by andreea cioloca
(Poem #1219) Luke Havergal
 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 leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
 Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
 But go, and if you listen 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.
 No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies —
 In eastern skies.

 Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
 Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
 That flames upon your forehead with a glow
 That blinds you to the way that you must go.
 Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
 Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
 Out of a grave I come to tell you this —
 To tell you this.

 There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
 There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
 Go, for the winds are tearing them away, —
 Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
 Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
 But go, and if you trust her she will call.
 There is the western gate, Luke Havergal —
 Luke Havergal.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
           (From "The Children of the Night", Collected Poems, 1921)

I like this poem for many reasons. The western gate suggests a kind of portal
between life and death that reminds me of all the Greek myths where someone had
to go down into Hades by the river Styx entrance, and of the poem "Gates of
Damascus". I won't get into possible meanings -- there are so many! -- but I'd
love to see what other people think this poem is about!

andreea

Thomas Hood -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Sending this on Martin's behalf:
(Poem #1061) Thomas Hood
 The man who cloaked his bitterness within
 This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries,
 God never gave to look with common eyes
 Upon a world of anguish and of sin:
 His brother was the branded man of Lynn;
 And there are woven with his jollities
 The nameless and eternal tragedies
 That render hope and hopelessness akin.

 We laugh, and crown him; but anon we feel
 A still chord sorrow-swept, -- a weird unrest;
 And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal,
 As if the very ghost of mirth were dead --
 As if the joys of time to dreams had fled,
 Or sailed away with Ines to the West.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
Note:
  winding sheet: a shroud

Today's sonnet showcases a lot of the things I enjoy about Robinson's work.
It displays, as usual, his uncanny ability to capture a person's essence in
a few short lines, and the way he can evoke sympathy without being overly
sentimental. But it also captures, at a slightly higher level, something of
the feel of Hood's own verse, especially in the sestet - compare, for
instance, the following bit from Hood's "Silence":

   No voice is hush'd--no life treads silently,
   But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
   That never spoke, over the idle ground

Of course, this is not a mere pastiche of Hood, but there are several
deliberate echoes of his style blended into the poem.

As for the poem's content itself, it is a fairly straightforward assessment
of Hood's poetic output:

   It would be easy to dismiss Hood as a lesser poet of the Romantic Era and
   early Victorian age, but his contribution was far greater than most
   realise. Mostly known during his lifetime for his comic writings, many
   self-published, it is his more serious writings that are best known
   today.
      -- [broken link] http://www.photoaspects.com/chesil/hood/

Robinson's poem does indeed address both aspects, but, more than that, it
highlights the predominance of Hood's serious work, and the fact that it
wound through, and ultimately came to overshadow his "puns and
pleasantries". This is, in the end, as much an epitaph of Hood as it is an
assessment.

-martin

Links:

  References to Hood's poems:
    'branded man of Lynn': "Eugene Aram", Poem #720
    'sailed away with Ines': "Fair Ines",
http://www.bartleby.com/101/650.html

  Other poems on poets:
    Poem #12, John Keats, "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"
    Poem #50, W. H. Auden, "In Memory of W. B. Yeats"
    Poem #127, John Milton, "On Shakespear "
    Poem #128, William Wordsworth, "London, 1802"
    Poem #130, Robert Browning, "The Lost Leader"
    Poem #148, Ambrose Bierce, "With a Book"
    Poem #250, Edwin Arlington Robinson, "Walt Whitman"
    Poem #530, J. K. Stephen, "A Sonnet"
    Poem #630, T. S. Eliot, "To Walter de la Mare"

The House on the Hill -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Posting this for Martin, who's currently offline:
(Poem #872) The House on the Hill
 They are all gone away,
 The house is shut and still,
 There is nothing more to say.

 Through broken walls and gray
 The winds blow bleak and shrill:
 They are all gone away.

 Nor is there one today
 To speak them good or ill:
 There is nothing more to say.

 Why is it then we stray
 Around the sunken sill?
 They are all gone away.

 And our poor fancy-play
 For them is wasted skill:
 There is nothing more to say.

 There is ruin and decay
 In the House on the Hill
 They are all gone away,
 There is nothing more to say.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
Not, perhaps, a poem about depression, but certainly a depressing poem.
Arlington, here, doesn't attempt to overcome the intrinsic limitations of
the villanelle; rather, he uses the repetition and the choppiness to
reinforce the images of passing time, death and decay.

The theme is, in fact, very reminiscent of Hardy, if not handled with the
latter's skill. Arlington's keenly observant eye, very much in evidence in
his character-based poems, seems to have deserted him here; the images don't
quite ring true, or evoke the mood the poet is trying for.

Indeed, the main reason I like this poem is as an example of how clever
wordplay, meaning twists and grammatical tricks are not necessary in order
to write a villanelle, nor is any sort of self-reference, humour or allusion
to the form. 'The House on the Hill' is a straightforward use of the form -
the repeated lines are simply repeated, with no apology or workaround. And
if this isn't that good a poem, the fault is in the content, not the form.

-martin.

Biography: poem #234

Links:

  Compare Hardy's 'During Wind and Rain' for a better treatment of the
  theme: poem #96

  And Thomas's 'Do Not Go Gentle' for the canonical example of a villanelle
  that works both around and with the form:
    poem #38

  See, also, the archive for several better poems by Robinson:
    [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html

The Mill -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

       
(Poem #821) The Mill
 The miller's wife had waited long,
 The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
 And there might yet be nothing wrong
 In how he went and what he said:
 "There are no millers any more,"
 Was all that she heard him say;
 And he had lingered at the door
 So long it seemed like yesterday.

 Sick with a fear that had no form
 She knew that she was there at last;
 And in the mill there was a warm
 And mealy fragrance of the past.
 What else there was would only seem
 To say again what he had meant;
 And what was hanging from a beam
 Would not have heeded where she went.

 And if she thought it followed her,
 She may have reasoned in the dark
 That one way of the few there were
 Would hide her and would leave no mark:
 Black water, smooth above the weir
 Like starry velvet in the night,
 Though ruffled once, would soon appear
 The same as ever to the sight.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
           (1920)

A morbid poem, the storlyline echoing that of many of the more depressing
sort of ballad. However, while 'The Mill' does rely in part upon the little
atmospheric touches common in the genre - the dying fire, the miller's wife
'sick with a fear that had no form', the velvet blackness of the night - its
main impact lies more in the tension between the story's development and the
quietness with which it is told.

Notice how there is no attempt to introduce the characters, to gain the
readers' sympathy for them that their death may have all the more impact.
Instead, the very casualness and lack of commentary with which the story is
told, the anonymity of the miller and his wife, the absence of any motive
other than the enigmatic "there are no millers any more", seem to say that
the double suicide was nothing particularly noteworthy, and that, like the
waters of the millrace, the continued passage of life would hide them, and
leave no mark.

By rights, the poem ought to feel a lot more hurried - in three short
verses, the scene is set, builds up to the discovery of a suicide, and
follows with another. Exeunt omnes. And yet, the actual effect is the very
opposite of hurried. The poem moves, rather, with a quiet grace; the curtain
opens, the characters are introduced, have their brief moment on stage, and
exit again, but so smoothly and naturally that at no point does the
transition between scenes feel hasty or abrupt. And yet, in counterpoint,
there is the increasing urgency of the protagonist, the buildup from
apprehension to fear to despair, the suggestion of a barely contained thrill
of horror that permeates the 'warm and mealy fragrance' of the mill and the
smooth black waters outside.

Afterthought:

"There are no millers any more" sounds like it could be a bit of social
commentary, an attribution of the miller's suicide to the loss of his job
when economic conditions overwhelmed the self-employed miller. Comments?

Biography: poem #234

Links:

  http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/m_r/robinson/mill.htm is a
  fascinating grammatical analysis of the poem, suggesting that Arlington is
  playing subtle games with the reader's perception of reality, and that
  "Another, even more provocative question has never been asked: did the
  miller actually hang himself?" Highly recommended.

  http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/m_r/robinson/robinson.htm has links
  to several other essays on the poet's life and works

-martin

Aaron Stark -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Inspired by yesterday's poem...
(Poem #636) Aaron Stark
 Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, --
 Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.
 A miser was he, with a miser's nose,
 And eyes like little dollars in the dark.
 His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;
 And when he spoke there came like sullen blows
 Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,
 As if a cur were chary of its bark.

 Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,
 Year after year he shambled through the town, --
 A loveless exile moving with a staff;
 And oftentimes there crept into his ears
 A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, --
 And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
Robinson has written a large and diverse body of poetry; however, when I
think of him what I mostly light upon are his devastating little character
sketches. Today's poem is somewhat less famous than the biting 'Miniver
Cheevy' or the haunting 'Richard Cory'[1], but no less enjoyable - the
caricature is overexaggerated, true, but it's a deft caricature for all of
that.

As in yesterday's Browning monologue, we are treated to the always-enjoyable
spectacle of a despised person being vilified in verse - I shall not attempt
to analyse the attraction of such a spectacle, but attraction there
definitely is[2].

The character assassination is not untempered with sympathy, though - in
fact, that is one of the things I enjoy about Robinson's sketches. They
appear overly simplistic, and yet there is always the feeling that Robinson
has truly gotten into the mind of the character, the suggestion of both
perceptiveness and sympathy that colour the poem and flesh out the starker
ink lines of caricature.

[1] which shall make its appearance on Minstrels - watch this space
[2] if done well, of course - if not, the results are exceedingly painful.

Notes:

 withal (adv): Along with the rest; in addition; besides; moreover;
 likewise; as well. Often in the collocations

 chary (adj): Careful not to waste or part with, frugal, sparing (of).
        -- OED

Links:

The aforementioned Browning poem: poem #635

'Miniver Cheevy', and a biography of Robinson: poem #234

And here's the other Robinson poem we've run: poem #300

We've done several other character sketches, by a variety of poets, but I'm
too tired to look for them :)

-martin

The Gift of God - -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

Guest poem sent in by Rajeev
(Poem #300) The Gift of God -
  Blessed with a joy that only she
  Of all alive shall ever know,
  She wears a proud humility
  For what it was that willed it so -
  That her degree should be so great
  Among the favoured of the Lord
  That she may scarcely bear the weight
  Of her bewildering reward.

  As one apart, immune, alone,
  Or featured for the shining ones,
  And like to none that she has known
  Of other women's other sons -
  The firm fruition of her need,
  He shines anointed; and he blurs
  Her vision, till it seems indeed
  A sacrilege to call him hers.

  She fears a little for so much
  Of what is best, and hardly dares
  To think of him as one to touch
  With aches, indignities, and cares;
  She sees him rather at the goal,
  Still shining; and her dream foretells
  The proper shining of a soul
  Where nothing ordinary dwells.

  Perchance a canvass of the town
  Would find him far from flags and shouts,
  And leave him only the renown
  Of many smiles and many doubts;
  Perchance the crude and common tongue
  Would havoc strangely with his worth;
  But she, with innocence unwrung,
  Would read his name around the earth.

  And others, knowing how this youth
  Would shine, if love could make him great,
  When caught and tortured for the truth
  Would only writhe and hesitate;
  While she, arranging for his days
  What centuries could not fulfil,
  Transmutes him with her faith and praise,
  And has him shining where she will.

  She crowns him with her gratefulness,
  And says again that life is good;
  And should the gift of God be less
  In him than in her motherhood,
  His fame, though vague, will not be small
  As upward through her dream he fares,
  Half clouded with a crimson fall
  Of roses thrown on marble stairs.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
I came across this in a random search for American poets. The site url is
http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/authors/robnea.html
Immediate reaction on reading this was to send it to my mother. That, I
suppose, says it all.
I have no comments on the construction of the poem - I don't know that much.
But I've always read poetry because of the element of music attached
(sing-song, if you will)
- and this one has its own music.

Rajeev

PS - My mother loves it!!

[biography]
Edwin Arlington Robinson was born on Dec. 22, 1869, at Head Tide in Maine
and until 1897 lived at the family home in Gardiner, Maine, aside from
several years as a student at Harvard University. For the rest of his life
he moved in New York and devoted his life to writing poetry. Robinson earned
a small living first as a subway inspector and then in the city's customs
office. He resided in rooms at boarding houses in New York and Yonkers, at
the Hotel Judson on Washington Square, in Brooklyn at 810 Washington Ave.,
and at last on West 42nd Street. His Collected Poems in 1922 received the
Pulitzer Prize and earned him a degree as Doctor of Literature at Yale
University. Although best known for his short poems, long poems such as
Captain Craig (1902), Lancelot (1920), The Man Who Died Twice (1924), and
Tristram (1927) earned him acclaim from his peers. The last two of these won
Pulitzer Prizes in 1925 and 1927, when he was elected as a member of the
National Academy of Arts and Letters. Robinson never married but enjoyed the
company of many friends. He died of cancer in hospital in New York on April
6, 1935.

Walt Whitman -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

I wish I had found this one last week...
(Poem #250) Walt Whitman
The master-songs are ended, and the man
That sang them is a name. And so is God
A name; and so is love, and life, and death,
And everything. But we, who are too blind
To read what we have written, or what faith
Has written for us, do not understand:
We only blink, and wonder.

Last night it was the song that was the man,
But now it is the man that is the song.
We do not hear him very much to-day:
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us --- too powerfully pure,
Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.

The master-songs are ended? Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no names are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
A beautifully elegiac poem. The sentiments expressed aren't particularly
original, and the hyperbole is perhaps slightly overdone; nevertheless, the
overall effect is both sombre and dignified.

thomas.

[Poetic Career}

Edwin Arlington Robinson's most memorable poems portray people trapped in
painful lives and unable to return to the security of the past. Like his poetic
characters, Robinson suffered hardships throughout his life. His father's
business failed in the Great Panic of 1893, one brother became a drug addict,
another brother became an alcoholic, and Robinson himself struggled for years
trying to earn money as a poet. After his first two volumes of poetry received
favorable notice, he moved from his home in Gardiner, Maine, to New York City.
His financial and critical status improved with his first Pulitzer Prize in
1922, and he went on to win two more Pulitzers in the following five years.
Robinson's works include Children of the Night (1897), The Man against the Sky
(1916), Avon's Harvest (1922), Collected Poems (1922), and Tristram (1927).

[Links}

We've done one poem by Edwin Robinson before this, Miniver Cheevy. You can read
it (and the EB biography) at poem #234

An essay on Robinson's importance as a poet can be found at
[broken link] http://ait.org.tw/ait/CIS/r2.htm
This essay also has a bit about the themes that inform much of his work.

There's a rather more general piece on Robinson's poetry at
[broken link] http://www.georgetown.edu/bassr/heath/syllabuild/iguide/robinson.html

My favourite elegy is Auden's wonderful poem in memory of Yeats, at poem #50

And of course, you can browse through all our previous poems at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

Miniver Cheevy -- Edwin Arlington Robinson

       
(Poem #234) Miniver Cheevy
 Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
    Grew lean while he assailed the seasons
 He wept that he was ever born,
    And he had reasons.

 Miniver loved the days of old
    When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
 The vision of a warrior bold
    Would send him dancing.

 Miniver sighed for what was not,
    And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
 He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
    And Priam's neighbors.

 Miniver mourned the ripe renown
    That made so many a name so fragrant;
 He mourned Romance, now on the town,
    And Art, a vagrant.

 Miniver loved the Medici,
    Albeit he had never seen one;
 He would have sinned incessantly
    Could he have been one.

 Miniver cursed the commonplace
    And eyed a khaki suit with loathing:
 He missed the medieval grace
    Of iron clothing.

 Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
    But sore annoyed was he without it;
 Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
    And thought about it.

 Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
    Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
 Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
    And kept on drinking.
-- Edwin Arlington Robinson
  "During these years Robinson perfected the poetic form for which he became
  so well known: a structure based firmly on stanzas, skillful rhyming
  patterns, and a precise and natural diction, combined with a dramatic
  examination of the human condition." -- EB

That pretty much sums up the reasons I enjoy his work, and today's poem is
an excellent example; a skilful portrait of a man born after his time, or at
least, a man who thinks so. It is also, on a larger level, a criticism of
an increasingly widespread syndrome - the tendency to idealise and
romanticise the past, not for its own merits but simply from a desire to
escape the present. Miniver Cheevy does not sound like the kind of person
who'd have lasted long in any of his beloved days of old.

m.

Biography and Assessment:

  Robinson, Edwin Arlington

  b. Dec. 22, 1869, Head Tide, Maine, U.S.
  d. April 6, 1935, New York, N.Y. American poet who is best known for
  his short dramatic poems concerning the people in a small New England
  village, Tilbury Town, very much like the Gardiner, Maine, in which he
  grew up.

  After his family suffered financial reverses, Robinson cut short his
  attendance at Harvard University (1891-93) and returned to Gardiner to
  stay with his family, whose fortunes were disintegrating. The lives of
  both his brothers ended in failure and early death, and Robinson's
  poetry is much concerned with personal defeat and the tragic
  complexities of life. Robinson himself endured years of poverty and
  obscurity before his poetry began to attract notice.

  His first book, The Torrent and the Night Before, was privately
  printed at his own expense. His subsequent collections, The Children
  of the Night (1897) and The Town Down the River (1910), fared little
  better, but the publication of The Man Against the Sky (1916) brought
  him critical acclaim. In these early works his best poetic form was
  the dramatic lyric, as exemplified in the title poem of The Man
  Against the Sky, which affirms life's meaning despite its profoundly
  dark side. During these years Robinson perfected the poetic form for
  which he became so well known: a structure based firmly on stanzas,
  skillful rhyming patterns, and a precise and natural diction, combined
  with a dramatic examination of the human condition. Among the best
  poems of this period are "Richard Cory," "Miniver Cheevy," "For a Dead
  Lady," "Flammonde," and "Eros Turannos." Robinson broke with the
  tradition of late Romanticism and introduced the preoccupations and
  plain style of naturalism into American poetry. His work attracted the
  attention of President Theodore Roosevelt, who gave him a sinecure at
  the U.S. Customs House in New York (held from 1905 to 1909).

  In the second phase of his career, Robinson wrote longer narrative poems
  that share the concern of his dramatic lyrics with psychological
  portraiture. Merlin (1917), the first of three long blank-verse narrative
  poems based on the King Arthur legends, was followed by Lancelot (1920)
  and Tristram (1927). Robinson's Collected Poems appeared in 1921. The Man
  Who Died Twice (1924) and Amaranth (1934) are perhaps the most often
  acclaimed of his later narrative poems, though in general these works
  suffer in comparison to the early dramatic lyrics. Robinson's later short
  poems include "Mr. Flood's Party," "Many Are Called," and "The Sheaves."

                -- EB