Edwin Arlington Robinson was born in Head Tide, Maine in 1869. He was an unhappy kid; he once wrote to his poetry pal Amy Lowell that he remembered wondering, at the age of six, why he had even been born. That's pretty bummed out, for a six year old. This bleak point of view would last throughout Robinson's life, so it's no surprise we see it reflected in "Richard Cory," his most famous poem.

Not everything in Robinson's life was bleak, however. Though in his young adulthood he had trouble getting other folks to publish his poems, in 1896 he decided to self-publish his collection The Torrent and the Night Before. A year later, he revised the collection—which featured "Richard Cory"—and then a few years after that (in 1902) he published his collection Captain Craig and Other Poems. It was this volume that ended up in the hands of none other than President Theodore Roosevelt, and ol' Teddy went wild for Robinson's work. He even reviewed the book for a magazine, and hooked up Robinson with a steady job (read: steady cash flow) that allowed him to keep up his writing. Roosevelt's praise put Robinson on the poetry map, and he went on to publish tons of poems. Our dude Robinson (or E.A.R., as we like to call him) won the Pulitzer three times (count 'em!) in the 1920s. By all accounts, he had a very successful poetry career.

Despite his success, Robinson was always a bit—okay, a lot—bleak. He wrote sad poems about sad people (particularly sad New Englanders), and his poem "Richard Cory" is really his peak sad poem. "Richard Cory" is about a guy who looks perfect on the outside. He's got money and good looks, and he's the envy of his town. Guys want to be him, girls want to be with him, but no one sees the darkness this dude carries around with him. And then, in the very last lines of the poem, Richard Cory commits suicide.

Don't say we didn't warn you; we told ya Edwin Arlington Robinson was one grim dude. And really, any tale of a grim dude should probably end with that grim dude's death. So here goes: Robinson died of cancer in 1935. Cheered up yet?

Good looks, nice clothes, fancy toys, tons and tons of money—what more could a man want out of life? As it turns out: a lot more.

Edwin Arlington Robinson's "Richard Cory" asks all of us to take a second glance at the things we have in our lives, and the things we want. Do nice clothes really make us that happy? How important are our looks, really? Are filthy rich people always satisfied with their lives?

According to "Richard Cory," the answer to all of these questions is a resounding "NO." So put down that fashion magazine and quit checking out that gadget blog. This poem is proof that material wealth, good looks, and fancy things just can't guarantee our happiness.

This poem's got a lesson to teach us, and that lesson rings out loud and clear: even the richest, handsomest man in the world has problems—even if you can't see them from the outside. Just because a man looks like he should be happy doesn't mean he is actually happy. We humans are complicated beings, and our appearances don't always match our realities. Or, to quote our pal Walt Whitman, we all "contain multitudes." And often, those multitudes are very different from the impressions that we give to the outside world.