Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Hen's Complaint - Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Beside an incubator stood
The would-be mother of a brood.
With drooping wings and nodding head,
These are the clucked-out words she said:
'O, vile invention of the age,
You fill me with a burning rage!
Unfeeling monster, moved by steam,
You rob me of life's sweetest dream!
Deprived of offspring which I crave,
I must go childless to my grave.
My aching wings which long to cover
A chirping brood of nestlings over,
No more may know that comfort sweet,
Since chickens may be hatched by heat.
Three weeks of quiet expectation
(Full many a flighty hen's salvation)
I am denied, for now men say
A hen should be content to lay,
And furnish eggs to incubate,
And setting hens are out of date.
Alas, for such a cruel fashion-'
The angry fowl paused, choked with passion,
While from behind a strong hand caught her
And doused her in a tub of water.
Comments about The Hen's Complaint by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- TelevisionRoald Dahl
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda