Charles Tennyson (1808–1879)

THE WORM long fosters his transforming sleep,

But claims th’ inalienable life again,

Which, though it be but one, yet seemeth twain,

The trance between is all so deadly deep:

The careful spider spreads before his lair

The web, ygathered near his filmy heart

Withouten throes or any vital smart,

And of his entrails makes his foes a snare.

In both a mighty mystery resides,

A truth, on whose development they thrive;

One for the cravings of his life provides,

One weaves himself another way to live.

To reach the secret is beyond our lore,

And man must rest, till God doth furnish more.