Longing For Different Time Periods

    Wouldn't it be cool to live in different time periods?  Not that there is anything wrong with now.  Well actually there is quite a bit wrong with now, but it's worth accepting that.  However, I think we all have that longing to live in the past, or way back in time in periods such as medieval times.  I am performing a recital of American songs with pianist Martin Neron on February 26 at Christ and St. Stephens in Manhattan, and one of the main themes in the recital is this theme of longing for time periods other than the present.
  There's a poem called "Miniver Cheevy" by Edwin Arlington Robinson which is set to music by John Duke which deals with this very subject of wanting to live in different time period other than the present.  The poem is a narration about a guy longing for the past, especially the  Middle Ages.  He wants to be a knight, war hero and the like, yet he is a homeless drunkard in his present circumstances.
    John Duke set this narration in variation form musically, and it is a brilliant setting.  In variation form musical material is repeated between each movement , but it is altered in rhythm, pitch, harmony etc...  In the poem Mr. Cheevy is lamenting the fact that he is living in this time period, and also getting excited about living in different time periods.  For example Miniver loves the Medici and gets really pumped up about that.  However, he curses the common place and hates khaki suits.  It says all this in the poem which I will post below.  I am discussing this because I am pointing out how John Duke sets the poem.  Mr. Duke also wrote an epilogue of Miniver Cheevy letting out drunken sighs which is not in the original poem.
     Check out the poem, and listen to the song.  Donald Gramm has an excellent recordings of the song both live and in the studio.  Mr. Duke himself was in the audience during the live performance.  Here's the poem.




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.