The Indianapolis Journal

The Insect World.

In the dappled shade and the golden light
What crook-kneed things hop into sight!
A thousand facets in the eye.
That gleams on mine—and wings that fly
A hundred feet to run along.
A sting behind the hum and song;
And as I gaze what toilers spin.
And dig—and delve the earth within
Trituring from an inner mine.
The wriggling earth-worm upward climbs,
And leaves the round long gallery dim
No statue lifts nor portrait grim,
And here and there a hoarded pile
Mound-builders of an ancient style—
(A red ant tribe.) I search, and still
No weapon rude nor pipe-bowl fills
The antique ruin: nor can I find
The hieroglyphies of the mind.
But further on a body round
In black-striped vest and long legs found—
An ogre to the castle sped.
To watch his silver wheel of thread
For straggling burgher of a fly.
To stab and feast on by and by.
League away, where rose leaves spread,
A tinted parachute o'er head,
She stood, upon a lilied rug.
A modest, black-eyed lady-bug;
And eyed afar the palace hive
Where queen bee reigns, and courtiers thrive;
Nor lace-cocked hat, nor rapiers long.
Bedeck the worshipers that throng
In yellow corsage, as I gaze,
Vermillion wings, & spotted blaze
Of sun and shade beneath the skies,
The wheel and whirr of butterflies;
In elm lodged the gossips hid
A knot of spinster katydids:
And Nubian-winged, an old blind bat
At evening listens to their chat
And in the dark, through seas of air.
The pirates buzz around my chair;
And drain the treasure from my veins,
And drunk with blood reel out again,
And Jack-o'-lantern is, I guess,
A fiery brush against my dress;
And circling round the shaded lamp.
The fluttering moth's white wings dew-damp
When days grow short and nights grow long
And winds shout loud a battle song
Upon the hills—a clarion peal,
I hearken long, and gazing kneel
Where logs ablaze, red caverns dim
Upon my hearth the violin
Of weary minstrel overbold.
Like wandering troubadours of old;
An old love-ballad, sweet and low—
A tender croon of long ago—
And rippling sweet the cricket's song
Is nested in my heart for long;
No cake I bring, nor spiced wine.
To feast that merry guest of mine,
But ere the logs, red blaze grows dim,
I greet and gladly welcome him!

—Margaret White.