THE CHRYSALIS
Come out of your Winter shell, old grub
Of horns and crusty twist,
And with your fellows elbows rub
More like a humanist!
A spiral armor’s very well
For its eccentric curve,
But not a gloomy hermit-cell
Of cynical reserve.
Come out of your Winter shell, old slug
Of dormant sense and soul!
You’re far too round and hard and smug;
Your Summer self unroll
And show you’ve got some nature left
That sprouts an airy wing;
The man of humus is bereft
Who can’t respond to Spring.
Come out of your Winter shell, old worm
Of wrapped-up gossamer,
If you would burst your scaly derm
And let the spirit stir;
For after all, for better things
A man created is
Than lying with imprisoned wings
A half-dead chrysalis.