2 min read
Слушать(AI)The Long Race
Up the old hill to the old house again Where fifty years ago the friend was young Who should be waiting somewhere there among Old things that least remembered most remain, He toiled on with a pleasure that was
To think how soon asunder would be flung The curtain half a century had hung Between the two ambitions they had slain. They dredged an hour for words, and then were done. “Good-bye!… You have the same old weather-vane— Your little horse that’s always on the run.” And all the way down back to the next train, Down the old hill to the old road again, It seemed as if the little horse had won.
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson (December 22, 1869 – April 6, 1935) was an American poet. Robinson won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry on three occasions
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
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 bewilderin...
Villanelle of Change
Since Persia fell at Marathon, The yellow years have gathered fast: Long centuries have come and gone And yet (they say) the place will don A phantom fury of the past, Since Persia fell at Marathon; And as of old, when Helicon Trembled and sw...
Reuben Bright
Because he was a butcher and thereby Did earn an honest living (and did right), I would not have you think that Reuben Bright Was any more a brute than you or I; For when they told him that his wife must die, He stared at them, and shook with grie...
The Dark Hills
Dark hills at evening in the west, Where sunset hovers like a sound Of golden horns that sang to rest Old bones of warriors under ground, Far now from all the bannered ways Where flash the legions of the sun, You fade—as if the last...