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Edwin Arlington Robinson - Verlaine

Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers 
To touch the covered corpse of him that fled 
The uplands for the fens, and rioted 
Like a sick satyr with doomís worshippers? 
Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse
To tell the story of the life he led. 
Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, 
And let the worms be its biographers. 

Song sloughs away the sin to find redress 
In artís complete remembrance: nothing clings
For long but laurel to the stricken brow 
That felt the Museís finger; nothing less 
Than hellís fulfilment of the end of things 
Can blot the star that shines on Paris now. 

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Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Poem: Verlaine
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