by GEORGIE STARBUCK GALBRAITH
IF, as some say, the insects are the race
Who one day shall inherit this earthly place,
I dearly hope the dominating force
Will be the Hies . . . not common houseor horse-,
But dragon-, fire-, and butter-. I could forgive,
Or nearly, an earth where people didn’t live,
If sunlight swarmed with the scintillating whir
Of a million dragons pinioned on gossamer;
If the meadow wore a vibrant velvet dress
Of fabulous butterflies; were night no less
Enchanted by pyrotechnic fantasies
Of myriad fireflies. But I fear that these
Are not the winged legions who would rule.
They are too useless and too beautiful.
No, it would be the ants, red disciplined cattle,
The proletariat having won its battle.