For Sam Koenen

That sheep are sheep, and food for wolves or worse,
That cricketsong dies with the autumn sun,
In your eye summed up all the universe.
It would perplex you to see justice done.

But then, the Thracian bondsman’s bitter eye
Owes its sad prudence to life’s long abuse:
There’s runtish truth by rude strength left to lie
In its own blood, where strength is strength’s excuse;

Here lies the eagle from whose side once fell
A feather that one day made its return
Fledged to an arrow. It is no joy to tell
These savage things, the sober and and the stern

Rewards of servitude marked by the whip
From whose patterns your fables took their shapes.
Things sweeter lay too far for you to grip.
You were the fox who could not reach the grapes.

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