THE SNAIL by ANTOINE VINCENT ARNAULT

WITHOUT or child or friend or kin,
To live a stranger here below,
And shrink and hide our shell within
At any danger's slightest show.
To love one's self with boundless love,
One's house with one's own self to fill;
In genial weather forth to move,
Only to work our neighbour ill.
To mask our vile, destructive path
By foulest trace and reckless scath.
To outrage blossoms, pure and bright,
By ribald kiss and poisoned bite;
At last alone as in a goal;
In grief and mischief to get old.--
Here is the egoist's story told,
And here the story of the snail.

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