144. Outer and Inner

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

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;

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

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.

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

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

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,

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.