The Caterpillar

 Under this loop of honeysuckle, 
A creeping, coloured caterpillar, 
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, 
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.
 

Down beneath grow dandelions,
Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses; 
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
 
I eat and swallow and eat again.
 

Here come raindrops helter-skelter; 
I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
 
I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.
 

When I’m old, tired, melancholy, 
I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum 
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.
 

Some say worms win resurrection, 
With white wings beating flitter-flutter, 
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? 
Either way I’ll miss my share.


Under this loop of honeysuckle, 
A hungry, hairy caterpillar, 
I crawl on my high and swinging seat, 
And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.

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