This poem was first published in Robinson’s collection The Town Down the River (1910).

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

5

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,

10

And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

And Priam’s¹ neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

15

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,²

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

20

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediaeval grace

Of iron clothing.

25

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,

30

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.

(1910)