| Robert Graves (1895–1985). Fairies and Fusiliers. 1918. |
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| 13. The Caterpillar |
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| UNDER this loop of honeysuckle, | |
| A creeping, coloured caterpillar, | |
| I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, | |
| I nibble it leaf by leaf away. | |
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| Down beneath grow dandelions, | 5 |
| Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses; | |
| Rooks flap croaking across the lane. | |
| I eat and swallow and eat again. | |
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| Here come raindrops helter-skelter; | |
| I munch and nibble unregarding: | 10 |
| Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. | |
| I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm. | |
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| When I’m old, tired, melancholy, | |
| I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum | |
| Close by, here on this lovely spray, | 15 |
| And die and dream the ages away. | |
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| Some say worms win resurrection, | |
| With white wings beating flitter-flutter, | |
| But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? | |
| Either way I’ll miss my share. | 20 |
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| Under this loop of honeysuckle, | |
| A hungry, hairy caterpillar, | |
| I crawl on my high and swinging seat, | |
| And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat. | |
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