E.A. Robinson
Miniver Cheevy (1907)


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.