Classic Poem

Soft-footed stroller from the herbless wood,
Stealing so mutely through my garden ground,
I will not balk thine eager quest for food,
Nor take thy life, nor startle thee with sound.
I spared the wanton squirrel, though I saw
His autumn raid upon my nuts and cones;
I spared his frisky brush and bushy jaw;
And shall I wound the poor dishearten'd ones?
Come freely: in my heart thy charter lies;
Feed boldly — what thou gain'st I cannot lose.
When robin shuffles on the snow-white sill,
We serve his winsome hunger; who would choose
To daunt his ruddy breast and wistful eyes?
But, hare or robin, it is hunger still.