The doubt you fought so long <br />The cynic net you cast, <br />The tyranny, the wrong, <br />The ruin, they are past; <br />And here you are at last, <br />Your blood no longer vexed. <br />The coffin has you fast, <br />The clod will have you next. <br /> <br />But fear you not the clod, <br />Nor ever doubt the grave: <br />The roses and the sod <br />Will not forswear the wave. <br />The gift the river gave <br />Is now but theirs to cover: <br />The mistress and the slave <br />Are gone now, and the lover. <br /> <br />You left the two to find <br />Their own way to the brink <br />Then—shall I call you blind?— <br />You chose to plunge and sink. <br />God knows the gall we drink <br />Is not the mead we cry for, <br />Nor was it, I should think— <br />For you—a thing to die for. <br /> <br />Could we have done the same, <br />Had we been in your place?— <br />This funeral of your name <br />Throws no light on the case. <br />Could we have made the chase, <br />And felt then as you felt?— <br />But what’s this on your face, <br />Blue, curious, like a welt? <br /> <br />There were some ropes of sand <br />Recorded long ago, <br />But none, I understand, <br />Of water. Is it so? <br />And she—she struck the blow, <br />You but a neck behind … <br />You saw the river flow— <br />Still, shall I call you blind?<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-whip/
