865. The Rabbit, by W. H. Davies

Not even when the early birds
Danced on my roof with showery feet
Such music as will come from rain —
Not even then could I forget
The rabbit in his hours of pain;
Where, lying in an iron trap,
He cries all through the deafened night —
Until his smiling murderer comes,
To kill him in the morning light.

Source: The Collected Poems of W.H. Davies