I <br /> <br />While I stood listening, discreetly dumb, <br />Lorraine was having the last word with me: <br />“I know,” she said, “I know it, but you see <br />Some creatures are born fortunate, and some <br />Are born to be found out and overcome,— <br />Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free; <br />And if I’m one of them (and I must be) <br />You may as well forget me and go home. <br /> <br />“You tell me not to say these things, I know, <br />But I should never try to be content: <br />I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow. <br />Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff; <br />But I can’t do it: I don’t know enough. <br />I’m going to the devil.”—And she went. <br /> <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />I did not half believe her when she said <br />That I should never hear from her again; <br />Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine, <br />Was I surprised or grieved at what I read: <br />“Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead. <br />You are too far away to make me stop. <br />They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!— <br />Will be enough,—but I’ll take five instead. <br /> <br />“You do not frown because I call you friend, <br />For I would have you glad that I still keep <br />Your memory, and even at the end— <br />Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curse <br />The love that flings, for better or for worse, <br />This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.”<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-growth-of-lorraine/
