Miniver Cheevy
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

     Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

     And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

     When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

     Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

     And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

     And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

     That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

     And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

     Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

     Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

     And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediaeval grace

     Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

     But sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,

     And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

     Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

     And kept on drinking.