Moltings

 

Do groveling caterpillars mourn that they

must quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft?

When they exchange  earth’s pleasures and displays

for airy ones, are silken wings with soft

translucent hues lamented?  Is the shell   

of chrysalis yet hungered for?  The sweet

Perfumes and honeyed nectars of the bells

from which they sip, do they these dainties greet

with proud disdain?  Do they call “fond” the hours

where they on muddy sticks did daily plod

ingesting dust?  Unthinkable! The flowers,

on whose sweet, fragrant petals they have trod

unfolded brave new worlds to butterflies,

and honored them as monarchs of the skies.

 

The little child, who lives in worlds of toys

and merry games, imagines not a far,

far better world than that on which his joys

and pleasures rest. His worn and rusting car,

the wooly bear that comforts him in rest,

are all in all; and though he crawls beside

them on his knees, they seem to him the best

Of earthly fare.  His dimpled smiles grow wide

for these dear friends, yet time will come when he

will rise from them and stand erect, explore

expanding scenes, nor turn aside to be

a child again. Instead, with hope for more

and better things, he’ll rise and walk.  The dead,

I think, faint not for moltings they have shed.