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Edwin Arlington Robinson - Shadrach O`Leary
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O’Leary was a poet—for a while:  
He sang of many ladies frail and fair,  
The rolling glory of their golden hair,  
And emperors extinguished with a smile.  
They foiled his years with many an ancient wile,
And if they limped, O’Leary didn’t care:  
He turned them loose and had them everywhere,  
Undoing saints and senates with their guile.  
  
But this was not the end. A year ago  
I met him—and to meet was to admire:
Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre,  
And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream.  
By questioning I found a man to know—  
A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam.
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