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.