Under this loop of honeysuckle, <br />A creeping, coloured caterpillar, <br />I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, <br />I nibble it leaf by leaf away. <br /> <br />Down beneath grow dandelions, <br />Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses; <br />Rooks flap croaking across the lane. <br />I eat and swallow and eat again. <br /> <br />Here come raindrops helter-skelter; <br />I munch and nibble unregarding: <br />Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. <br />I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm. <br /> <br />When I’m old, tired, melancholy, <br />I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum <br />Close by, here on this lovely spray, <br />And die and dream the ages away. <br /> <br />Some say worms win resurrection, <br />With white wings beating flitter-flutter, <br />But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? <br />Either way I’ll miss my share. <br /> <br />Under this loop of honeysuckle, <br />A hungry, hairy caterpillar, <br />I crawl on my high and swinging seat, <br />And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-caterpillar/
