On blood of murdered brothers nourished, still
Thunders to all the world, Thou shall not kill!
And the worm’s death is in the sparrow’s song.
And I have seen it in the gnats that throng
Old shadowy forests, in tumultuous dance;
Or in the little measuring-worm advance,
Inch by slow inch, along the swaying stem
Of some exalted flower; or lift the hem
Of the frail butterfly’s embroidered cloak
In gentle breathings that the sun did stroke