Edwin Arlington Robinson — Llewellyn and the Tree

Could he have made Priscilla share        &nbsp The paradise that he had planned, Llewellyn would have loved his wife        &nbsp As well as any in the land. Could he have made Priscilla cease        &nbsp To goad him for what God left out, Llewellyn would have been as mild        &nbsp As any we have read about. Could all have been as all was not,        &nbsp Llewellyn would have had no story; He would have stayed a quiet man        &nbsp And gone his quiet way to glory. But howsoever mild he was        &nbsp Priscilla was implacable; And whatsoever timid hopes        &nbsp He built—she found them, and they fell. And this went on, with intervals        &nbsp Of labored harmony between Resounding discords, till at last        &nbsp Llewellyn turned—as will be seen. Priscilla, warmer than her name,        &nbsp And shriller than the sound of saws, Pursued Llewellyn once too far,        &nbsp Not knowing quite the man he was. The more she said, the fiercer clung        &nbsp The stinging garment of his wrath; And this was all before the day        &nbsp When Time tossed roses in his path. Before the roses ever came        &nbsp Llewellyn had already risen. The roses may have ruined him,        &nbsp They may have kept him out of prison. And she who brought them, being Fate,        &nbsp Made roses do the work of spears,— Though many made no more of her        &nbsp Than civet, coral, rouge, and years. You ask us what Llewellyn saw,        &nbsp But why ask what may not be given? To some will come a time when change        &nbsp Itself is beauty, if not heaven. One afternoon Priscilla spoke,        &nbsp And her shrill history was done; At any rate, she never spoke        &nbsp Like that again to anyone. One gold October afternoon        &nbsp Great fury smote the silent air; And then Llewellyn leapt and fled        &nbsp Like one with hornets in his hair. Llewellyn left us, and he said        &nbsp Forever, leaving few to doubt him; And so, through frost and clicking leaves,        &nbsp The Tilbury way went on without him. And slowly, through the Tilbury mist,        &nbsp The stillness of October gold Went out like beauty from a face.        &nbsp Priscilla watched it, and grew old. He fled, still clutching in his flight        &nbsp The roses that had been his fall; The Scarlet One, as you surmise,        &nbsp Fled with him, coral, rouge, and all. Priscilla, waiting, saw the change        &nbsp Of twenty slow October moons; And then she vanished, in her turn        &nbsp To be forgotten, like old tunes. So they were gone—all three of them,        &nbsp I should have said, and said no more, Had not a face once on Broadway        &nbsp Been one that I had seen before. The face and hands and hair were old,        &nbsp But neither time nor penury Could quench within Llewellyn's eyes        &nbsp The shine of his one victory. The roses, faded and gone by,        &nbsp Left ruin where they once had reigned; But on the wreck, as on old shells,        &nbsp The color of the rose remained. His fictive merchandise I bought        &nbsp For him to keep and show again, Then led him slowly from the crush        &nbsp Of his cold-shouldered fellow men. "And so, Llewellyn," I began—        &nbsp "Not so," he said; "not so, at all: I've tried the world, and found it good,        &nbsp For more than twenty years this fall. "And what the world has left of me        &nbsp Will go now in a little while." And what the world had left of him        &nbsp Was partly an unholy guile. "That I have paid for being calm        &nbsp Is what you see, if you have eyes; For let a man be calm too long,        &nbsp He pays for much before he dies. "Be calm when you are growing old        &nbsp And you have nothing else to do; Pour not the wine of life too thin        &nbsp If water means the death of you. "You say I might have learned at home        &nbsp The truth in season to be strong? Not so; I took the wine of life        &nbsp Too thin, and I was calm too long. "Like others who are strong too late,        &nbsp For me there was no going back; For I had found another speed,        &nbsp And I was on the other track. "God knows how far I might have gone        &nbsp Or what there might have been to see; But my speed had a sudden end,        &nbsp And here you have the end of me." The end or not, it may be now        &nbsp But little farther from the truth To say those worn satiric eyes        &nbsp Had something of immortal youth. He may among the millions here        &nbsp Be one; or he may, quite as well, Be gone to find again the Tree        &nbsp Of Knowledge, out of which he fell. He may be near us, dreaming yet        &nbsp Of unrepented rouge and coral; Or in a grave without a name        &nbsp May be as far off as a moral.