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.