XVI

An ant crawling up a grass-blade,

And above it, the sky.

I shall remember these when I die:

An ant and a butterfly

And the sky.

The grass is full of forget-me-nots and poppies:

Through the air darts many a fly.

The ant toils up its grass-blade,

The careless hours go by.

The grass-blades bow to the feet of the lazy hours:

They walk out of the wood, showering shadows on flowers.

Their robes flutter vaguely far off there in the clearing:

I see them sometimes from the corner of my eye.