by Elinor Wylie

Man, the egregious egoist

(In mystery the twig is bent)

Imagines, by some mental twist,

That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load

That on all living creatures lies,

Nor stoops to pity in the toad

The speechless sorrow of his eyes.

He asks no questions of the snake,

Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom

Where lidless fishes, broad awake,

Swim staring at a nightmare doom.