The Dumb World

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.