The poem
Black ants have made a musty mound My purple pine tree under, And I am often to be found, Regarding it with wonder. Yet as I watch, somehow it;s odd, Above their busy striving I feel like an ironic god Surveying human striving. Then one day came my serving maid, And just in time I caught her, For on each lusty arm she weighed A pail of boiling water. She said with glee: "When this I spill, Of life they'll soon be lacking." Said I: "If even one you kill, You bitch! I'll send you packing."
Just think - ten thousand eager lives In that toil-worn upcasting, Their homes, their babies and their wives Destroyed in one fell blasting! Imagine that swift-scalding hell! . . . And though, mayhap, it seems a Fantastic, far-fetched parallel - Remember . . . Hiroshima.