64448: The Caterpillar

<p dir="ltr"> 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> 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> 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> 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> 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 not miss my share.<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.</p>