Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921.
I. The Man Against the Sky13. Theophilus
B
Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus?
Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games
Would have you long,—and you are one of us.
And they, no doubt, are few and innocent.
Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems,
Heredity outshines environment.
Survives and amplifies itself in you?
What manner of devilry has ever been
That your obliquity may never do?
But not a friend of us would have him weep.
Admiring everything that lives and dies,
Theophilus, we like you best asleep.
To lend another name less hazardous:
Caligula, maybe, or Caliban,
Or Cain,—but surely not Theophilus.