While dawn crept upward, I crept down to see My fresh, new loot. Then, as I raised my head, I saw the star atop our Christmas Tree Was in a tiny web whose every thread Ensnared a different insect nearly dead And wriggling like fresh trout lured by a worm To a murderous hook. Since my mind bred Pity for all things in a trap so firm, I took the broom to sweep them down from there But stopped because the star was not the floor. I thought of the exploited girls and boys Whose oriental hands had made my toys, Seeing the spider come, and didn’t dare Deny gifts so well-earned to one so poor.