Whenever Richard Cory went
down town,
We people on the pavement
looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole
to crown,
Clean, favored, and
imperially slim.
And he was always quietly
arrayed,
And he was always human when
he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses
when he said,
"Good-morning," and
he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich--yes, richer
than a king--
And admirably schooled in
every grace:
In fine, we thought that he
was everything
To make us wish that we were
in his place.
So on we worked, and waited
for the light,
And went without the meat,
and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm
summer night,
Went home and put a bullet
through his head.
No comments:
Post a Comment