[Vwoolf] ‘Creon’s Mouse’, by Donald Davie

[Stuart N. Clarke]

Creon, I think, could never kill a mouse 

When once that dangerous girl was put away, 

Shut up unbridled in her rocky house, 

Colossal nerve denied the light of day.



Now Europe’s hero, the humaner King 

Who hates himself, is humanized by shame, 

Is he a curbed or a corroded spring? 

A will that’s bent, or buckled? Tense, or tame?



If too much daring brought (he thought) the war, 

When that was over nothing else would serve 

But no one must be daring any more, 

A self-induced and stubborn loss of nerve.



In itching wainscot having met his match, 

He waits unnerved, and hears his caverned doom, 

The nausea that struggles to dispatch 

Pink-handed horror in a craggy room.



The absolute endeavour was the catch; 

To clean the means and never mind the end 

Meant he had not to chasten but to scotch 

The will he might have managed to amend.



You that may think yourselves not proud at all, 

Learn this at least from humble Creon’s fall: 

The will that is subject, not overthrown, 

Is humbled by some power not its own.
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