I cannot see the short, white curls Upon the forehead of an Ox, But what I see them dripping with That poor thing's blood, and hear the axe; When I see calves and lambs, I see Them led to death; I see no bird Or rabbit cross the open field But what a sudden shot is heard; A shout that tells me men aim true, For death or wound, doth chill me through. The shot that kills a hare or bird Doth pass through me; I feel the wound When those poor things find peace in death, And when I hear no more that sound. These cat-like men do hate to see Small lives in happy motion; I Would almost rather hide my face From Nature than pass these men by; And rather see a battle than A dumb thing near a drunken man. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNDER THE CEDARCROFT CHESTNUT by SIDNEY LANIER FRAGMENT 113 by HILDA DOOLITTLE HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 8. BRENNBAUM by EZRA POUND ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION by HORACE SMITH MONODY ON THE ASTOR HOUSE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE ALBATROSS by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE |