A blue-eyed calf — as feeble as a shadow —
Comes through our streets at noon. To living breath
It came this morn, but knows nor milk nor meadow —
Driven from birth to death!

What money-value in a thing so tender?
Yet men of slaughter quarrel for the prize.
How innocent of purchaser or vendor,
Those unpolluted eyes!

It looks untroubled through the troubled city;
It looks as if its life might never end;
It looks into my soul more thoughtful pity
Than soul may comprehend.

I have no striking moral for my picture,
But only fix the outlines ere they melt,
Content to leave it open to thy stricture
If thou feel what I felt.