To Vernon L. Kellogg

’Tis well, that man is slow to cry “Alas!”-- That Nature’s heart seems eager to atone For music often ending in a moan By silence tender with the peace it has; But ever, as on morning ways I pass, I see the fields with hints of terror sown-- A tuft of fur, or small and bleaching bone, Or heap of little feathers in the grass.

How fares it with the lesser wards of life?-- Always they seem so restless, so alert. Is fear to them an unrelenting care-- The spirit of that dumb and ravenous strife No Power will justify and none avert? And in the deep--’tis well we see not there!