THE CHRYSALIS
Comeout of your Winter shell, old grubOf horns and crusty twist,And with your fellows elbows rubMore like a humanist!A spiral armor’s very wellFor its eccentric curve,But not a gloomy hermit-cellOf cynical reserve.Come out of your Winter shell, old slugOf dormant sense and soul!You’re far too round and hard and smug;Your Summer self unrollAnd show you’ve got some nature leftThat sprouts an airy wing;The man of humus is bereftWho can’t respond to Spring.Come out of your Winter shell, old wormOf wrapped-up gossamer,If you would burst your scaly dermAnd let the spirit stir;For after all, for better thingsA man created isThan lying with imprisoned wingsA half-dead chrysalis.
Comeout of your Winter shell, old grubOf horns and crusty twist,And with your fellows elbows rubMore like a humanist!A spiral armor’s very wellFor its eccentric curve,But not a gloomy hermit-cellOf cynical reserve.Come out of your Winter shell, old slugOf dormant sense and soul!You’re far too round and hard and smug;Your Summer self unrollAnd show you’ve got some nature leftThat sprouts an airy wing;The man of humus is bereftWho can’t respond to Spring.Come out of your Winter shell, old wormOf wrapped-up gossamer,If you would burst your scaly dermAnd let the spirit stir;For after all, for better thingsA man created isThan lying with imprisoned wingsA half-dead chrysalis.
Comeout of your Winter shell, old grubOf horns and crusty twist,And with your fellows elbows rubMore like a humanist!A spiral armor’s very wellFor its eccentric curve,But not a gloomy hermit-cellOf cynical reserve.
Comeout 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 slugOf dormant sense and soul!You’re far too round and hard and smug;Your Summer self unrollAnd show you’ve got some nature leftThat sprouts an airy wing;The man of humus is bereftWho can’t respond to Spring.
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 wormOf wrapped-up gossamer,If you would burst your scaly dermAnd let the spirit stir;For after all, for better thingsA man created isThan lying with imprisoned wingsA half-dead chrysalis.
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.