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 medi？val 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