And he knows neither what nor when;
But no magicians are attending
To make him see as he saw then,
And he will never find again
The face that once had been the rending
Of all his purpose among men.
He blames her not, nor does he chide her,
And she has nothing new to say;
If he were Bluebeard he could hide her,
But that's not written in the play,
And there will be no change today;
Although, to the serene outsider,
There still would seem to be a way.
- from The Unforgiven by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Read the poem in its entirety.
The following week, I posted Lancelot by Edwin Arlington Robinson.
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