Classic Poem

Somebody up in the rocky pasture
Heaved the stone over.
Here are the cells and a network of furrows
In the roots of the clover.

Hundreds of eggs lie fitted in patterns,
Waxy and yellow.
Hundreds of ants are racing and struggling.
One little fellow

Shoulders an egg as big as his body,
Ready for hatching.
Darkness is best, so everyone's rushing,
Hastily snatching

Egg after egg to the lowest tunnels.
And suddenly, where
Confusion had been, there now is nothing.
Ants gone. Cells bare.