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(22 December 1869 – 6 April 1935 / Maine / United States)

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The Rat

As often as he let himself be seen
We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored
The inscrutable profusion of the Lord
Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean—
Who made him human when he might have been
A rat, and so been wholly in accord
With any other creature we abhorred
As always useless and not always clean.

Now he is hiding all alone somewhere,
And in a final hole not ready then;
For now he is among those over there
Who are not coming back to us again.
And we who do the fiction of our share
Say less of rats and rather more of men.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: alone

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Comments about this poem (Aunt Imogen by Edwin Arlington Robinson )

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  • Cristoph Galindo (1/24/2008 6:51:00 PM)

    WoW that's intresting

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