Poets | Poem of the Day | Top 40 | Search | Comments | Privacy
June 25th, 2017 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 326,043 comments.
Edwin Arlington Robinson - Old Trails


I met him, as one meets a ghost or two, 
Between the gray Arch and the old Hotel. 
“King Solomon was right, there’s nothing new,” 
Said he. “Behold a ruin who meant well.” 

He led me down familiar steps again, 
Appealingly, and set me in a chair. 
“My dreams have all come true to other men,” 
Said he; “God lives, however, and why care? 

“An hour among the ghosts will do no harm.” 
He laughed, and something glad within me sank. 
I may have eyed him with a faint alarm, 
For now his laugh was lost in what he drank. 

“They chill things here with ice from hell,” he said; 
“I might have known it.” And he made a face 
That showed again how much of him was dead,
And how much was alive and out of place. 

And out of reach. He knew as well as I 
That all the words of wise men who are skilled 
In using them are not much to defy 
What comes when memory meets the unfulfilled.

What evil and infirm perversity 
Had been at work with him to bring him back? 
Never among the ghosts, assuredly, 
Would he originate a new attack; 

Never among the ghosts, or anywhere,
Till what was dead of him was put away, 
Would he attain to his offended share 
Of honor among others of his day. 

“You ponder like an owl,” he said at last; 
“You always did, and here you have a cause.
For I’m a confirmation of the past, 
A vengeance, and a flowering of what was. 

“Sorry? Of course you are, though you compress, 
With even your most impenetrable fears, 
A placid and a proper consciousness 
Of anxious angels over my arrears. 

“I see them there against me in a book 
As large as hope, in ink that shines by night 
Surely I see; but now I’d rather look 
At you, and you are not a pleasant sight.

“Forbear, forgive. Ten years are on my soul, 
And on my conscience. I’ve an incubus: 
My one distinction, and a parlous toll 
To glory; but hope lives on clamorous. 

“’Twas hope, though heaven I grant you knows of what—
The kind that blinks and rises when it falls, 
Whether it sees a reason why or not— 
That heard Broadway’s hard-throated siren-calls; 

“’Twas hope that brought me through December storms, 
To shores again where I’ll not have to be
A lonely man with only foreign worms 
To cheer him in his last obscurity. 

“But what it was that hurried me down here 
To be among the ghosts, I leave to you. 
My thanks are yours, no less, for one thing clear: 
Though you are silent, what you say is true. 

“There may have been the devil in my feet, 
For down I blundered, like a fugitive, 
To find the old room in Eleventh Street. 
God save us!—I came here again to live.” 

We rose at that, and all the ghosts rose then, 
And followed us unseen to his old room. 
No longer a good place for living men 
We found it, and we shivered in the gloom. 

The goods he took away from there were few, 
And soon we found ourselves outside once more, 
Where now the lamps along the Avenue 
Bloomed white for miles above an iron floor. 

“Now lead me to the newest of hotels,” 
He said, “and let your spleen be undeceived: 
This ruin is not myself, but some one else; 
I haven’t failed; I’ve merely not achieved.” 

Whether he knew or not, he laughed and dined 
With more of an immune regardlessness 
Of pits before him and of sands behind 
Than many a child at forty would confess; 

And after, when the bells in Boris rang 
Their tumult at the Metropolitan, 
He rocked himself, and I believe he sang. 
“God lives,” he crooned aloud, “and I’m the man!” 

He was. And even though the creature spoiled 
All prophecies, I cherish his acclaim. 
Three weeks he fattened; and five years he toiled 
In Yonkers,—and then sauntered into fame. 

And he may go now to what streets he will— 
Eleventh, or the last, and little care; 
But he would find the old room very still 
Of evenings, and the ghosts would all be there. 

I doubt if he goes after them; I doubt 
If many of them ever come to him.
His memories are like lamps, and they go out; 
Or if they burn, they flicker and are dim. 

A light of other gleams he has to-day 
And adulations of applauding hosts; 
A famous danger, but a safer way 
Than growing old alone among the ghosts. 

But we may still be glad that we were wrong: 
He fooled us, and we’d shrivel to deny it; 
Though sometimes when old echoes ring too long, 
I wish the bells in Boris would be quiet. 

Share |

Added: Jun 3 2005 | Viewed: 2659 times | Comments and analysis of Old Trails by Edwin Arlington Robinson Comments (0)

Old Trails - Comments and Information

Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Poem: Old Trails
Poem of the Day: Jul 1 2016
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Old Trails, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it.

Poem Info

Robinson Info
Copyright © 2000-2015 Gunnar Bengtsson. All Rights Reserved. Links