"Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
and he had reasons."
Oh, Edwin Arlington Robinson! You occupy a little bit of real estate in my heart, just for having written this poem and the following stanzas:
"Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace
of iron clothing..."
My modest complaint would be the uneven rhythm. Is this done on purpose? Is this a particular forumula? At least he's consistent... No matter. This is killer:
"Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking."
Frankly, Miniver seems like a bit of a geek and definitley a loser, lost in fantasies of chivalric glamour to the point of disdaining the life he's got. Compounding the situation with alcohol in a beautiful, sick way. This poem catches my eye because, well, I feel like I know this guy. And if you take out the medieval stuff - I believe I dated this guy, dammit.
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