| FROM twig to twig the spider weaves | |
| At noon his webbing fine. | |
| So near to mute the zephyrs flute | |
| That only leaflets dance. | |
| The sun draws out of hazel leaves | 5 |
| A smell of woodland wine. | |
| I wake a swarm to sudden storm | |
| At any step’s advance. | |
| |
| Along my path is bugloss blue, | |
| The star with fruit in moss; | 10 |
| The foxgloves drop from throat to top | |
| A daily lesser bell. | |
| The blackest shadow, nurse of dew, | |
| Has orange skeins across; | |
| And keenly red is one thin thread | 15 |
| That flashing seems to swell. | |
| |
| My world I note ere fancy comes, | |
| Minutest hushed observe: | |
| What busy bits of motioned wits | |
| Through antlered mosswork strive. | 20 |
| But now so low the stillness hums, | |
| My springs of seeing swerve, | |
| For half a wink to thrill and think | |
| The woods with nymphs alive. | |
| |
| I neighbour the invisible | 25 |
| So close that my consent | |
| Is only asked for spirits masked | |
| To leap from trees and flowers. | |
| |
| And this because with them I dwell | |
| In thought, while calmly bent | 30 |
| To read the lines dear Earth designs | |
| Shall speak her life on ours. | |
| |
| Accept, she says; it is not hard | |
| In woods; but she in towns | |
| Repeats, accept; and have we wept, | 35 |
| And have we quailed with fears, | |
| Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward | |
| We have whom knowledge crowns; | |
| Who see in mould the rose unfold, | |
| The soul through blood and tears. | 40 |
