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Upon A Wasp Chilled With Cold

 The bear that breathes the northern blast
Did numb, torpedo-like, a wasp
Whose stiffened limbs encramped, lay bathing
In Sol's warm breath and shine as saving,
Which with her hands she chafes and stands
Rubbing her legs, shanks, thighs, and hands.
Her pretty toes, and fingers' ends Nipped with this breath, she out extends Unto the sun, in great desire To warm her digits at that fire.
Doth hold her temples in this state Where pulse doth beat, and head doth ache.
Doth turn, and stretch her body small, Doth comb her velvet capital.
As if her little brain pan were A volume of choice precepts clear.
As if her satin jacket hot Contained apothecary's shop Of nature's receipts, that prevails To remedy all her sad ails, As if her velvet helmet high Did turret rationality.
She fans her wing up to the wind As if her pettycoat were lined, With reason's fleece, and hoists sails And humming flies in thankful gales Unto her dun curled palace hall Her warm thanks offering for all.
Lord, clear my misted sight that I May hence view Thy divinity, Some sparks whereof thou up dost hasp Within this little downy wasp In whose small corporation we A school and a schoolmaster see, Where we may learn, and easily find A nimble spirit bravely mind Her work in every limb: and lace It up neat with a vital grace, Acting each part though ne'er so small Here of this fustian animal.
Till I enravished climb into The Godhead on this ladder do, Where all my pipes inspired upraise An heavenly music furred with praise.

Poem by Edward Taylor
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