| Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921. |
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| V. The Town Down the River |
| 11. The Whip |
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| THE DOUBT you fought so long | |
| The cynic net you cast, | |
| The tyranny, the wrong, | |
| The ruin, they are past; | |
| And here you are at last, | 5 |
| Your blood no longer vexed. | |
| The coffin has you fast, | |
| The clod will have you next. | |
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| But fear you not the clod, | |
| Nor ever doubt the grave: | 10 |
| The roses and the sod | |
| Will not forswear the wave. | |
| The gift the river gave | |
| Is now but theirs to cover: | |
| The mistress and the slave | 15 |
| Are gone now, and the lover. | |
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| You left the two to find | |
| Their own way to the brink | |
| Then—shall I call you blind?— | |
| You chose to plunge and sink. | 20 |
| God knows the gall we drink | |
| Is not the mead we cry for, | |
| Nor was it, I should think— | |
| For you—a thing to die for. | |
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| Could we have done the same, | 25 |
| Had we been in your place?— | |
| This funeral of your name | |
| Throws no light on the case. | |
| Could we have made the chase, | |
| And felt then as you felt?— | 30 |
| But what’s this on your face, | |
| Blue, curious, like a welt? | |
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| There were some ropes of sand | |
| Recorded long ago, | |
| But none, I understand, | 35 |
| Of water. Is it so? | |
| And she—she struck the blow, | |
| You but a neck behind … | |
| You saw the river flow— | |
| Still, shall I call you blind? | 40 |
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