Classic Poem

In a pasture toward the sun, O my brothers,
I have seen him leap and run with the others.
I have watched him as he fed,
Nuzzling with his curly head,
And his baby coat was red
Like his mother's.

They have penned him in the train with the others,
And that distant low of pain is his mother's.
For they seized him as he nursed—
Hot his hunger and his thirst
In this groaning place accursed,
O my brothers.

He is goaded from the car, and he smothers
Where the wheels and pulleys are, O my brothers!
For his fear has found its proof:
By his hind and cloven hoof
He is swung twixt floor and roof
With the others.

Now the knife has crossed his throat—like the others.
Redder glows his little coat than his mother's.
(Far the pastures toward the south!)
Bitter drink for bitter drouth
Is the dark blood in his mouth,
O my brothers!