whenever richard cory went to town
we people on the pavement looked at him:
he was a gentleman from sole to crown
cleanfavored, 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 jittered when he walked.

and he was rich yes- richer than a king-
and admirably scholed 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.