Miniver Cheevy

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.