A tiny spinning worm that wove the livelong day,—
Long after the glory had put her flag to mast—
And spun the thread I followed to the dell,
Where, in a gnarled old oak, I found a grub,
Who waited for the spinner’s strand
To draw him to the light.
Whiff, sayeth the wind.
Whiff, sayeth the wind!
I blew a beggar’s rags, and loving
Was the flapping of the cloth. And singing on