Last night was a rare “super harvest moon” (see also this), and I went outside to gaze at the lovely sight.
And since I’m one of those people with a lot of poetry rattling around in my head, up popped some lines from “Mr. Flood’s Party” by Edwin Arlington Robinson, one of the poems I loved when I first read it back in junior high school.
It’s a sad poem, as are almost all of Arlington’s works. The subject is an elderly drunk in Tilbury Town (the stand-in for Robinson’s hometown of Gardiner, Maine) whose life is almost over, and who has a conversation with himself while in his cups:
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:“Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird.” He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: “Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will.”
There are many more stanzas, but my favorite back then (and now) was/is this one:
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,….
More here, if you care to read it.
Robinson (often confused with another tri-named poet who wrote character sketches based on people he knew in the two Illinois towns in which he was raised, Edgar Lee Masters) had a life full of darkness and tragedy, but utterly dedicated to poetry. Like Frost who came slightly after him, he was a New Englander, and a master of forms. Robinson is by far the lesser poet, but that doesn’t make him a bad one, although he’s considered very old-fashioned nowadays.
You may not remember Robinson’s name, but you’re probably familiar with his most famous poem, “Richard Cory.” But did you know that he was discovered by Teddy Roosevelt, who was almost singlehandedly responsible for his fame?


