The Spider as an Artist

A very few—a Bird or two—To take a backward look.These are the days when skies resumeThe old—old sophistries of June—A blue and gold mistake.Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee—Almost thy plausibilityInduces my belief.Till ranks of seeds their witness bear—And softly thro’ the altered airHurries a timid leaf.Oh Sacrament of summer days,Oh Last Communion in…

As Tongue of Diamond had reviledAll else accused me—and I smiled—My Soul—that Morning—was My friend—Her favor—is the best DisdainToward Artifice of Time—or Men—But Her Disdain—’twere lighter bearA finger of Enamelled Fire—

Before it was imperative‘Twas all distinct to me –

The thoughtful grave encloses—Tenderly tucking them in from frostBefore their feet are cold.Never the treasures in her nestThe cautious grave exposes,Building where schoolboy dare not look,And sportsman is not bold.This covert have all the childrenEarly aged, and often cold,Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father—Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

No Power can untieTo stretch a little furtherA Skein of Misery—The Earth lays back these tired livesIn her mysterious Drawers—Too tenderly, that any doubtAn ultimate Repose—The manner of the Children—Who weary of the Day—Themself—the noisy PlaythingThey cannot put away—

Not Burdock’s—blame—But mine—Who went too nearThe Burdock’s Den—A Bog—affronts my shoe—What else have Bogs—to do—The only Trade they know—The splashing Men!Ah, pity—then!‘Tis Minnows can despise!The Elephant’s—calm eyesLook further on!