Miniver Cheevy
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

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 medieval 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.

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