It’s a quiet, almost trancelike moment of attention. The speaker watches an ant climb a grass-blade, notices a butterfly, and feels that these tiny, ordinary sights matter enough to be remembered at the end of life. Death is mentioned lightly, without fear, as if these small images are a kind of private keepsake. Around him, the grass is full of forget-me-nots and poppies, flies dart through the air, and time feels loose and unhurried. The mood is dreamy and melancholy, but also tender. The “lazy hours” become shadowy figures walking out of the wood, their robes fluttering at the edge of sight. Everything is fleeting, yet the poem itself acts as a memory: it holds the ant, the butterfly, and the sky still for a moment before they slip away.
Irradiations XVI — Summary
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.