1In a shoe box stuffed in an old nylon stockingSleeps the baby mouse I found in the meadow,Where he trembled and shook beneath a stickTill I caught him up by the tail and brought him in,Cradled in my hand,A little quaker, the whole body of him trembling,His absurd whiskers sticking out like a cartoon-mouse,His feet like small leaves,Little lizard-feet,Whitish and spread wide when he tried to struggle away,Wriggling like a minuscule puppy.Now he's eaten his three kinds of cheese and drunk from hisbottle-cap watering-trough—So much he just lies in one corner,His tail curled under him, his belly bigAs his head; his bat-like earsTwitching, tilting toward the least sound.Do I imagine he no longer tremblesWhen I come close to him?He seems no longer to tremble.2But this morning the shoe-box house on the back porch is empty.Where has he gone, my meadow mouse,My thumb of a child that nuzzled in my palm? —To run under the hawk's wing,Under the eye of the great owl watching from the elm-tree,To live by courtesy of the shrike, the snake, the tom-cat.I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass,The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway,The paralytic stunned in the tub, and the water rising,—All things innocent, hapless, forsaken.