A beast with tawny fur and wistful eyes
stares down the world through bars of serried steel.
He knows not why his life is held in prize;
all else is guesswork, but the cage is real.
The keeper brings him food, but not release;
the metal is for burnishing, not breaking.
Each passing day, the doubt and fear increase;
each night brings dreams uncaged, and bitter waking.
Why is a mouse in such a prison pent,
as vermin, pet, or cold experiment?
Or was it fear forged this accursed place,
fear of a vengeance fatal if set free?
Is it a king that frets his futile pace,
shorn of his mane as of his liberty?
He tries his strength, but cannot take its measure:
greater or less, the bars are stronger still.
No purpose, no escape, but deathly leisure,
a wasted wrath, an ever thwarted will.
Did He Who made the lion make the cage,
and make him strong for naught but useless rage?
* * * *
The lock is sprung:— the beast escapes its house.
Which is it, then: the lion or the mouse?
Gorgeous.
I’ve often wondered about He Who Makes – when I think that most animal babies are food for other animals.
I trust Him; I just don’t understand so much.