| Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921. |
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| II. The Children of the Night |
| 14. Dear Friends |
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| DEAR friends, reproach me not for what I do, | |
| Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say | |
| That I am wearing half my life away | |
| For bubble-work that only fools pursue. | |
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| And if my bubbles be too small for you, | 5 |
| Blow bigger then your own: the games we play | |
| To fill the frittered minutes of a day, | |
| Good glasses are to read the spirit through. | |
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| And whose reads may get him some shrewd skill; | |
| And some unprofitable scorn resign, | 10 |
| To praise the very thing that he deplores; | |
| So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, | |
| The shame I win for singing is all mine, | |
| The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours. | |
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