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.
Robert Frost - 1874-1963
The Demiurge's Laugh
It was far in the sameness of the wood; I was running with joy on the Demon’s trail, Though I knew what I hunted was no true god. It was just as the light was beginning to fail That I suddenly heard—all I needed to hear: It has lasted me many and many a year. The wound was behind me instead of before, A sleepy sound, but mocking half, As of one who utterly couldn’t care. The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh, Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went; And well I knew what the Demon meant. I shall not forget how his laugh rang out. I felt as a fool to have been so caught, And checked my steps to make pretence It was something among the leaves I sought (Though doubtful whether he stayed to see). Thereafter I sat me against a tree.