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E. A. Robinson: Miniver Cheevy



Edwin Arlingston Robinson:


Miniver Cheevy



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 incecessantly

         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  tought 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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