A Dying Tiger-moaned for Drink-
I hunted all the Sand-
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand-

His Mighty Balls-in death were thick-
But searching-I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water-and of me-

'Twas not my blame-who sped too slow-
'Twas not his blame-who died
While I was reaching him-
But 'twas-the fact that He was dead-