Theodore the Poet
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s a boy, Theodore, you sat for long hoursOn the shore of the turbid SpoonWith deep-set eye staring at the door of the crawfish’s burrow,Waiting for him to appear, pushing ahead,First his waving antennæ, like straws of hay,And soon his body, colored like soap-stone,Gemmed with eyes of jet.And you wondered in a trance of thoughtWhat he knew, what he desired, and why he lived at all.But later your vision watched for men and womenHiding in burrows of fate amid great cities,Looking for the souls of them to come out,So that you could seeHow they lived, and for what,And why they kept crawling so busilyAlong the sandy way where water failsAs the summer wanes.
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