 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
144
THE BEETLE
Whither away so fast,
Bold beetle, say?
Spurning the sand-grains in thy busy haste,
Across the trodden way?
In purple mail bedight,
So dark and truculent,
Armed cap-a-pie like Launcelot for the fight,
Or on love's errand bent.
Bold beetle, say?
Spurning the sand-grains in thy busy haste,
Across the trodden way?
In purple mail bedight,
So dark and truculent,
Armed cap-a-pie like Launcelot for the fight,
Or on love's errand bent.
For thee the wheatfield towers
In high dim colonnades.
Still hurrying down the overarching bowers?
Still pressing through the blades?
The midgets in thy track
Shrink trembling and aghast,
To see thy jointed horns and armour black
Sweep proudly, proudly past.
In high dim colonnades.
Still hurrying down the overarching bowers?
Still pressing through the blades?
The midgets in thy track
Shrink trembling and aghast,
To see thy jointed horns and armour black
Sweep proudly, proudly past.
What, wilt not stay thy feet?
No rest, no leisure yet?
Ere those dark clouds in toppling thunder meet,
And all the world be wet?
Well, I will onward too,
Into the western sky:
We'll think great thoughts of all we mean to do,
Old beetle, you and I.
No rest, no leisure yet?
Ere those dark clouds in toppling thunder meet,
And all the world be wet?
145
Into the western sky:
We'll think great thoughts of all we mean to do,
Old beetle, you and I.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |