In Montana the badger looks at me in fear and buries himself where he stood in the soft sandy gravel only moments ago. I have to think it's almost like our own deaths assuming we had the wit to save money by digging our own graves or gathering the wood for the funeral pyre. But then the badger does it to stay alive, carrying his thicket, his secret room in his powerful claws. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SONNET: 129 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE MUTABILITY (2) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THREE SONNETS WRITTEN IN MID-CHANNEL: 2 by ALFRED AUSTIN ALFARABI; THE WORLD-MAKER. A RHAPSODICAL FRAGMENT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |