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.
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