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235
The Worm
I saw a worm, with many a fold,
It spun itself a silken tomb;
And there in winter-time enrolled,
It heeded not the cold or gloom.
It spun itself a silken tomb;
And there in winter-time enrolled,
It heeded not the cold or gloom.
The traces of a dry, dead leaf
Were left in lines upon its cone;
The record of its history brief,
A spring and summer come and gone.
Were left in lines upon its cone;
The record of its history brief,
A spring and summer come and gone.
Within a small, snug nook it lay,
Nor rain nor snow could reach it there;
Nor wind was felt in gusty day,
Nor biting cold of frosty air.
Nor rain nor snow could reach it there;
Nor wind was felt in gusty day,
Nor biting cold of frosty air.
But spring returned; its mild, warm breath
Was felt within the sleeper's cell;
And waking from its trance of death,
I saw it crawl from out its shell.
Was felt within the sleeper's cell;
And waking from its trance of death,
I saw it crawl from out its shell.
And starting where they lay beneath,
Were eyelet wings spread one by one;
Each perfected as from a sheath,
And shining in the morning sun.
Were eyelet wings spread one by one;
Each perfected as from a sheath,
And shining in the morning sun.
Slow and with pain it first moved on,
And of the dust still seemed to be;
An hour passed by; the worm was gone;—
It soared on golden pinions free!
And of the dust still seemed to be;
An hour passed by; the worm was gone;—
It soared on golden pinions free!
Poem No. 257a; spring 1845
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