THE SNAIL To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, Within that house secure he hides, Give but his horns the slightest touch, He shrinks into his house with much Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Whole treasure. Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, The faster. Who seeks him must be worse than blind If, finding it, he fails to find Its master. From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800] THE HOUSEKEEPER THE frugal snail, with forecast of repose, The Humble-Bee Touch but a tip of him, a horn,—'tis well,— He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay And his sole riches. Whereso'er he roam,- 1469 by Charles Lamb (1775-1834] THE HUMBLE-BEE BURLY, dozing humble-bee, Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance Turns the sod to violets, Hot midsummer's petted crone, Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Wiser far than human seer, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. Ode to a Butterfly Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 1471 Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] TO A BUTTERFLY I've watched you now a full half-hour, I know not if you sleep or feed. What joy awaits you, when the breeze This plot of orchard-ground is ours; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we are young; William Wordsworth [1770-1850] ODE TO A BUTTERFLY THOU spark of life that wavest wings of gold, In glad pursuit beguiled, Living his unspoiled days mid flowers and flocks and herds! Thou winged blossom, liberated thing, Irrevocably free, Hovering at will o'er their parental bowers? Or is thy luster drawn from heavenly hues,- Then lend those tints to thee, On thee to float a few short hours, and die? Birds have their nests; they rear their eager young, And flit on errands all the livelong day; Each fieldmouse keeps the homestead whence it sprung; But thou art Nature's freeman,-free to stray Unfettered through the wood, Seeking thine airy food, The sweetness spiced on every blossomed spray. The garden one wide banquet spreads for thee, One drop of honey gives satiety; A second draught would drug thee past all mirth. Thy calm eyes never close, Thou soberest sprite to which the sun gives birth. And yet the soul of man upon thy wings Of immortality. Symbol of life, me with such faith endow! Thomas Wentworth Higginson [1823–1911] |