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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.
Told of your deeds I shudder for your dream And they, no doubt, are few and innocent.
Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, Heredity outshines environment.
What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, Survives and amplifies itself in you? What manner of devilry has ever been That your obliquity may never do? Humility befits a father’s eyes, But not a friend of us would have him weep.
Admiring everything that lives and dies, Theophilus, we like you best asleep.
Sleep—sleep; and let us find another man To lend another name less hazardous: Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, Or Cain,—but surely not Theophilus.

Poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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