Memories Are Strange Things

Sometimes a poem stays with me, not because it is, necessarily, one of my favourites, but due to the memories associated with it. One such poem is Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson:

 

“Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

 

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,” and he glittered ...