Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising
eight weeks old.
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His
legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness,
and settled him on thy knee, Art Thou
content with Thy Servant?
He is very comfy with Thee.
Master, behold a Sinner? He hath done
grievous wrong.
He hath defiled Thy Premises through
being kept in too long.
Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in
the dirt,
and his self-respect has been bruised.
Master, pardon
Thy Sinner, and see he is properly loosed.
Master-again Thy Sinner! This that was
once Thy Shoe,
He hath found and taken and carried
aside,
as a fitting matter to chew. Now there
is neither blacking
nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us
in tow. Master, remember
Thy Servant is young, and tell her to
let him go!
Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children
came to play
And because they fought to caress him,Thy
Servant wentedst
away. But now that the Little Beasts
have gone, he has
returned to see (Brushed-with his Sunday
collar on-)what
they left over from tea.
Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf
and three parts blind,
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He
cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not in his loneliness,
nor make him that
kitten's scorn. He has had none other
God than Thee since
the year that he was born!
Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things
have come to pass
There is no heat in the midday sun nor
health in the wayside
grass
His bones are full of an old disease-his
torments run and
increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings,
and grant him a quick
release!
Euthanasia
Yes. The will decided. But how can the heart decide,
Lying deep under the surface
Of the level reason the eye sees-
How can the heart decide
To banish this loved face forever?
The starry eyes reeded with darkness
To forgo? The light within the body's blindness?
To prove that these were lost in any case
And accept the stumbling stumps of consolation?
Under sleep, under day,
Under the earth, in the tunnel of the marrow,
Unchanging love swears all's unchanged, and knows
That what it has not, still stays all it has.
Stephen Spender, British poet