Poor shape grotesque that careless hands have wrought!
Frail wistful thing, left gaping at the sun
With empty grin, 'tis well no blood shall run
Within thy frozen veins, no kindling thought
Light up those eyeless sockets wherein naught
But hate could dwell if once they flashed the fire
Of being, or the doom-gift of Desire
Should curse thy life, unbidden and unsought.
Poor snow man with thy tattered hat awry,
And broomstick musket toppling from thy hands,
'Tis well thou hast no language to decry
Thy poor creator or his vain commands;
No tear to shed that thou so soon must die,
No voice to lift in prayer where no god understands!