Classic Poem

The beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance, by which he lives,
The mulb'ry-leaf, a simple store,
That serves him—till he needs no more!
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Tho', till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arriv'd, his work begins.
He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins;
Till circle upon circle wound
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, tho' slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-inclos'd, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task;
And, tho' a worm, when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,
When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous; supplies,
With future worms and future flies,
The next-ensuing year;—and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter-liv'd than mosThe be,
Were useful in their kind as he.