Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/364

 "What battered ancientry is this," thought I, "And when, if ever, did we meet before?" But ask him as I might, I got no more For answer than a moaning and a cry: Too late to parley, but in time to die, He staggered, and lay shapeless on the floor.

When had I known him? And what brought him here? Love, warning, malediction, hunger, fear? Surely I never thwarted such as he?— Again, what soiled obscurity was this: Out of what scum, and up from what abyss, Had they arrived these rags of memory?



, 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.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
 * That made so many name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,
 * And Art, a vagrant.

