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.