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