To Vernon L. Kellogg

By George Sterling

'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 seems 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!

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