How A Tennis Stroke Inventor Supports Himself
Hope and I are conducting an estate sale. Down in the basement of the estate I discovered an old pool table buried under dust and slabs of concrete and other rubble. I vacuumed it, got one of the overhead lights to work, found cues and a boxed set of discs that now are sliding on wires. Then I wrote up the rules for Cowboy Pool as it has been played at the MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire ever since the poet Edwin Arlington Robinson established them. Reader, you remember him, right? He wrote "Richard Corey" and a lot of other great stuff. Anyway, if I can sell the table we'll get a commission.
Miniver Cheevy
By Edwin Arlington Robinson
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 mediƦval 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.
Hope and I are conducting an estate sale. Down in the basement of the estate I discovered an old pool table buried under dust and slabs of concrete and other rubble. I vacuumed it, got one of the overhead lights to work, found cues and a boxed set of discs that now are sliding on wires. Then I wrote up the rules for Cowboy Pool as it has been played at the MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire ever since the poet Edwin Arlington Robinson established them. Reader, you remember him, right? He wrote "Richard Corey" and a lot of other great stuff. Anyway, if I can sell the table we'll get a commission.
Miniver Cheevy
By Edwin Arlington Robinson
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 mediƦval 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.
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