The Monkey

I saw you hunched and shivering on the stones, The bleak wind piercing to your fragile bones, Your shabby scarlet all inadequate: A little ape that had such human eyes They seemed to hide behind their miseries— Their dumb and hopeless bowing down to fate— Some puzzled wonder. Was your monkey soul Sickening with memories of gorgeous days, Of tropic playfellows and forest ways, Where, agile, you could swing from bole to bole In an enchanted twilight with great flowers For stars; or on a bough the long night hours Sit out in rows, and chatter at the moon? Shuffling you went, your tiny chilly hand Outstretched for what you did not understand; Your puckered mournful face begging a boon That but enslaved you more. They who passed by Saw nothing sorrowful; gave laugh or stare, Unheeding that the little antic there Played in the gutter such a tragedy.