| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | To a Dead Mouse in a Trap | | By Roy Temple House |
| | | WE are born short of sight; but some of us, | |
| Some who are human, grow to presbyopes | |
| And set lack-lustre eyes on distant stars | |
| And infinite impersonals: the children | |
| Who worship gilt and sugar, break their gods | 5 |
| (Breaking their hearts with every bitter blow), | |
| And pin their faith to others; till at last, | |
| Finding this life a plated thing, they turn | |
| To Heaven, to a listless second choice. | |
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| Happy the scattered, joyous polytheists | 10 |
| Who, loving God and gossip, prayers and gold, | |
| Float smoothly here and yonder, like the bee | |
| Who, finding that bloom dry, falls into this one. | |
| And, failing of such versatility, | |
| I have been tempted now and then to call | 15 |
| Happy a young lieutenant I have known, | |
| Who held both arms out to the Long-desired | |
| And clasped the bloody earth with those two arms. | |
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| Yes—as I drop you on the garbage-heap, | |
| Tiny crushed glutton, I half envy you. | 20 | | | |
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