Poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Many Are Called

The Lord Apollo, who has never died,
Still holds alone his immemorial reign,
Supreme in an impregnable domain
That with his magic he has fortified;
And though melodious multitudes have tried
In ecstacy, in anguish, and in vain,
With invocation sacred and profane
To lure him, even the loudest are outside.

Only at unconjectured intervals,
By will of Him on whom no man may gaze,
By word of Him whose law no man has read,
A questing light may rift the sullen walls,
To cling where mostly its infrequent rays
Fall golden on the patience of the dead.

1. The Voice of Age
2. The Dark House
3. Two Men
4. Veteran Sirens
5. Siege Perilous

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