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Robert Graves - The Caterpillar
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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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