When walking on the cobbled sweating streets,
Through center town, I stop to have a drink.
Begrimmed the fog in valley sets to speak,
To visions of the “whats already seen”.
Like one who acts like god is here to give,
The mucid trace of once experienced:
Begets my physic, like a *****, and hence.
The lighting call of music down the lane.
The frisk and gambol sure‘d is my measure;
That I should keep on dancing like a child,
With youth by candle light and flushed with mead...
Not drowning now but flying promenade.
By the labyrinth of what’s Implied in thee,
I’m running through the halls of jubilee.
With longing to the forests edge I creep...
Imbibe upon the sweet lycanthropy.
A first person narrative of a happy night in “Richard Corey’s” life, the titular character of a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson. This poem explores stereotypes of mental illness, and also comments on what is means for a death to be mythic.
