| Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921. |
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| I. The Man Against the Sky |
| 13. Theophilus |
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| BY what serene malevolence of names | |
| 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. | |
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| Told of your deeds I shudder for your dream | 5 |
| And they, no doubt, are few and innocent. | |
| Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, | |
| Heredity outshines environment. | |
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| What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, | |
| Survives and amplifies itself in you? | 10 |
| What manner of devilry has ever been | |
| That your obliquity may never do? | |
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| Humility befits a father’s eyes, | |
| But not a friend of us would have him weep. | |
| Admiring everything that lives and dies, | 15 |
| Theophilus, we like you best asleep. | |
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| Sleep—sleep; and let us find another man | |
| To lend another name less hazardous: | |
| Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, | |
| Or Cain,—but surely not Theophilus. | 20 |
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