Verse > Edwin A. Robinson > Collected Poems > II. The Children of the Night > 37. Verlaine
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Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935).  Collected Poems. 1921.
  
II. The Children of the Night
37. 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 doom’s worshippers?
Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse        5
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 art’s complete remembrance: nothing clings       10
For long but laurel to the stricken brow
That felt the Muse’s finger; nothing less
Than hell’s fulfilment of the end of things
Can blot the star that shines on Paris now.

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