The Clinging Vine
“Be calm? And was I frantic?
You’ll have me laughing soon.
I’m calm as this Atlantic,
And quiet as the moon;
I may have spoken faster
Than once, in other days;
For I’ve no more a master,
And now—‘Be calm,’ he says.
“Fear not, fear no commotion,—
I’ll be as rocks and sand;
The moon and stars and ocean
Will envy my command;
No creature could be stiller
In any kind of place
Than I … No, I’ll not kill her;
Her death is in her face.
“Be happy while she has it,
For she’ll not have it long;
A year, and then you’ll pass it,
Preparing a new song.
And I’m a fool for prating
Of what a year may bring,
When more like her are waiting
For more like you to sing.
“You mock me with denial,
You mean to call me hard?
You see no room for trial
When all my doors are barred?
You say, and you’d say dying,
That I dream what I know;
And sighing, and denying,
You’d hold my hand and go.
“You scowl—and I don’t wonder;
I spoke too fast again;
But you’ll forgive one blunder,
For you are like most men:
You are,—or so you’ve told me,
So many mortal times,
That heaven ought not to hold me
Accountable for crimes.
“Be calm? Was I unpleasant?
Then I’ll be more discreet,
And grant you, for the present,
The balm of my defeat:
What she, with all her striving,
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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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