robert frost siiri:

i found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
on a white heal-all, holding up a moth
like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
assorted characters of death and blight
mixed ready to begin the morning right,
like the ingredients of a witches’ broth--
a snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
and dead wings carried like a paper kite.

what had that flower to do with being white,
the wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
what brought the kindred spider to that height,
then steered the white moth thither in the night?
what but design of darkness to appall?--
if design govern in a thing so small.

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