An ant on the tablecloth <br />Ran into a dormant moth <br />Of many times his size. <br />He showed not the least surprise. <br />His business wasn't with such. <br />He gave it scarcely a touch, <br />And was off on his duty run. <br />Yet if he encountered one <br />Of the hive's enquiry squad <br />Whose work is to find out God <br />And the nature of time and space, <br />He would put him onto the case. <br />Ants are a curious race; <br />One crossing with hurried tread <br />The body of one of their dead <br />Isn't given a moment's arrest- <br />Seems not even impressed. <br />But he no doubt reports to any <br />With whom he crosses antennae, <br />And they no doubt report <br />To the higher-up at court. <br />Then word goes forth in Formic: <br />'Death's come to Jerry McCormic, <br />Our selfless forager Jerry. <br />Will the special Janizary <br />Whose office it is to bury <br />The dead of the commissary <br />Go bring him home to his people. <br />Lay him in state on a sepal. <br />Wrap him for shroud in a petal. <br />Embalm him with ichor of nettle. <br />This is the word of your Queen.' <br />And presently on the scene <br />Appears a solemn mortician; <br />And taking formal position, <br />With feelers calmly atwiddle, <br />Seizes the dead by the middle, <br />And heaving him high in air, <br />Carries him out of there. <br />No one stands round to stare. <br />It is nobody else's affair <br />It couldn't be called ungentle <br />But how thoroughly departmental<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/departmental/
