Mr. Flood's Party
=================
Adapted from "Mr. Flood's Party" by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."

Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.

"For auld lang syne."
The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered, and the song being done.
"For auld lang syne."
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
"For auld lang syne."
Where strangers shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.

"For auld lang syne."
The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered, and the song being done.
"For auld lang syne."
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
"For auld lang syne."
Where strangers shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.