Classic Poem

There is a public garden in Bordeaux,
Where, carved in true, compelling lines of stone,
Rosa Bonheur, calm visaged and alone,
Looks ever down upon the endless flow

Of life in the less rugged flesh. A slow,
Ungainly little donkey, as, wind-blown,
A weed into a garden drifts, unknown,
Stole in one day to feed where flowers grow.

A keeper, shocked that this dull beast should browse
Before the statue of the mighty dead,
Rushed up, with blows the sinner to arouse.
He stops, club poised above the shaggy head;
Calm eyes seem watching him; his head he bows,
And leads the dumb brute gently forth instead.