He knocked, and I beheld him at the door-- A vision for the gods to verify. “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? MINIVER CHEEVY Miniver Cheevy, 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 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 mediæval 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. THE PILOT From the Past and Unavailing Out of cloudland we are steering; After groping, after fearing, Into starlight we come trailing, And we find the stars are true. Still, O comrade, what of you? You are gone, but we are sailing, And the old ways are all new. For the Lost and Unreturning We have drifted, we have waited; Uncommanded and unrated, We have tossed and wandered, yearning For a charm that comes no more From the old lights by the shore: We have shamed ourselves in learning What you knew so long before. For the Breed of the Far-going Who are strangers, and all brothers, May forget no more than others Who look seaward with eyes flowing. But are brothers to bewail One who fought so foul a gale? You have won beyond our knowing, You are gone, but yet we sail. VICKERY’S MOUNTAIN Blue in the west the mountain stands, And through the long twilight Vickery sits with folded hands, And Vickery’s eyes are bright.