Of all the idiots that abound
Above, beneath, and on the ground.
The blinking squirrel is to me
The deepest-sunk in idiocy —
He builds himself a catacomb
Among the worms, and calls it home,
And there he cowers, sore afraid
Of bird and beast and man and maid,
And when, at last, he leaves his rut,
His goal is just another nut.
August sauntered down the mountain-side,
Dropping mottled, turbid wraiths of decay.
The air was like an old priest
Disrobing without embarrassment
Before the dark and candid gaze of night.
But these things brought no pause
To the saucily determined squirrel.
His eyes were hungrily upturned
To where the stars hung--icily clustered nuts
Dotting trees of solitude.
He saw the stars just over the horizon,
And they seemed to grow
On trees that he could reach.
So he scampered on, from branch to branch,
Wondering why the fairy nut-trees
Ran away from him.