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Edwin Arlington Robinson - The Rat
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As often as he let himself be seen  
We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored  
The inscrutable profusion of the Lord  
Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean—  
Who made him human when he might have been
A rat, and so been wholly in accord  
With any other creature we abhorred  
As always useless and not always clean.  
  
Now he is hiding all alone somewhere,  
And in a final hole not ready then;
For now he is among those over there  
Who are not coming back to us again.  
And we who do the fiction of our share  
Say less of rats and rather more of men.
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