Like a white piece
Of rigid satin cloth
Assorted characters of
Death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right
Like the ingredients
Of a witches broth
A snow-drop spider,
A flower like a froth, and dead wings carried liked a paper kite
What has that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appal?
If design govern in a thing so small
I found a dimpled spider,
Fat and white, On a white heal-all holding up a moth