Edwın Arlıngton Robınson
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 when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Richard Cory ne zaman inse şehre;
Biz kaldırımdakiler bakardık ona, gözlerimizi dike dike
Tepeden tırnağa, bir beyefendiydi adeta,
Sağlığı sıhhati de gayet yerindeydi
Ve her zaman sade giyinirdi
Sanki konuşurken bizden bir beşerdi
Ama küt küt atardı kalpler yine de
“Günaydın” dediğinde ve ışıldayarak yürüdüğünde
Ve zengindi -evet, bir kraldan daha zengindi-
Ve takdire şayan şekilde, eğitilmişti her erdemle
Her konuda; düşünürdük biz, o mahirdir diye
Olmayı dilerdik onun yerinde
Böylece durmadan çalıştık ve güzel günleri bekledik
Etsiz yaşadık ve ekmeği lanetledik;
Ve Richard Cory, sakin bir yaz gecesi,
Eve gitti ve kafasını bir kurşunla deldi.