By what serene malevolence of names <br />Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus? <br />Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games <br />Would have you long,—and you are one of us. <br /> <br />Told of your deeds I shudder for your dream <br />And they, no doubt, are few and innocent. <br />Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, <br />Heredity outshines environment. <br /> <br />What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, <br />Survives and amplifies itself in you? <br />What manner of devilry has ever been <br />That your obliquity may never do? <br /> <br />Humility befits a father’s eyes, <br />But not a friend of us would have him weep. <br />Admiring everything that lives and dies, <br />Theophilus, we like you best asleep. <br /> <br />Sleep—sleep; and let us find another man <br />To lend another name less hazardous: <br />Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, <br />Or Cain,—but surely not Theophilus.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/theophilus/
