MINIVER CHEEVY (E. A. Robinson)
Miniver Cheevey, 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
set him a 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 medieval 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.
SONG OF THE SPRING BREEZE (a Unification Church “Holy Song”)
Snow and cold wind of the bitter dark night
lift off the weight of your cold ruthless hand;
spring breeze will chase you and bring flow’ry fragrances,
breathing new life to the suffocated hills.
Though you most ruthless of winter winds blow,
doomed in a moment you too will be calm;
spring breeze will chase you and bring flow’ry fragrances,
breathing new life to the suffocated hills.
Butterfly awake and you meadowlarks of spring,
our land has suffered this nightmare too long;
spring breeze will chase you and bring flow’ry fragrances,
breathing new life to the suffocated hills.
