Robert Graves

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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