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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.


Minever mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.


Minever 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 mediŠval 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.


E.A. Robinson


Background by
Karen S. Nicholas

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