Ant
Miniature mountaineer
A stalk of grass
A new adventure
Futuristic forager
Supplying for
The greater body
Terrific tunnerler
Expanding and growing
The home
Solid solder
Welcomed home
In pride
Quintessential queen
Living in the glory
Of the nest
Poems on the topic: ant
Poems on the topic “ant” on Poets.by.
Songs About Life and Brighter Things Yet XXXV
The ant, he lays aside some dough
Against the time of cold and snow ;
He doesn't trust a bit to luck,
But gathers his assorted truck: —
If I could live just like the ant
I'd be as thrifty — but I can't.
Advice to a Butter-Cup
Undistinguished butter-cup
Lost among myriads of others,
To the red ant eyeing you
You are giant stillness.
He pauses on the boulder of a clod,
Baffled by your nearness to the sky.
But to the black loam at your feet
You are the atom of a pent-up dream.
Undistinguished butter-cup,
Take your little breath of contemplation,
Undisturbed by haughty tricks of space.
Irradiations 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.
Irradiations XV
O seeded grass, you army of little men
Crawling up the long slope with quivering, quick blades of steel:
You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of Earth,
Interlace yourselves tightly over my heart,
And do not let me go:
For I would lie here forever and watch with one eye
The pilgrimaging ants in your dull, savage jungles,
The while with the other I see the stiff lines of the slope
Break in mid-air, a wave surprisingly arrested,
And above them, wavering, dancing, bodiless, colourless, unreal,
The long thin lazy fingers of the heat.
An Oak
Hoar mistletoe
Hangs in clumps
To the twisted boughs
Of this lonely tree.
Beneath its roots I often thought treasure was buried:
For the roots had enclosed a circle.
But when I dug beneath them,
I could only find great black ants
That attacked my hands.
When at night I have the nightmare,
I always see the eyes of ants
Swarming from a mouldering box of gold.
The People
The ants are walking under the ground,
And the pigeons are flying over the steeple,
And in between are the people.
Flat Suburbs, S.W., in the Morning
The new red houses spring like plants
In level rows
Of reddish herbage that bristles and slants
Its square shadows.
The pink young houses show one side bright
Flatly assuming the sun,
And one side shadow, half in sight,
Half-hiding the pavement-run;
Where hastening creatures pass intent
On their level way,
Threading like ants that can never relent
And have nothing to say.
Bare stems of street-lamps stiffly stand
At random, desolate twigs,
To testify to a blight on the land
That has stripped their sprigs.
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