So thought he as he crumbled his bun
With clumsy fingers in loose black cloth;
And the impish spirit of genial fun
Hovered about them and mocked them both.
Mutual ignorance, mutual scorn,
Revealed in glances aflame though fleeting;
Such, in the glow of this glad May morn,
The inhuman spirit of mortal meeting.
The worm must disparage the butterfly,
The butterfly must despise the worm;