Monday, November 18, 2002

If brevity be the soul of wit,
then let also be the seat of pity -- note especially the last two verses.

Miniver Cheevey, child of scorn,
Grew lean as 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 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,
had he 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 though and thought and thought
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevey, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

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