The Ants
By William Empson
We tunnel through your noonday out to you.
We carry our tube’s narrow darkness there
where, nostrum-plastered, with prepared air,
with old men running and trains whining through
We ants may tap your aphids for your dew.
You may not wish their sucking or our care;
Our all-but freedom, too, your branch must bear,
High as roots’ depth in earth, all earth to view.
No, by too much this station the air nears.
How small a chink lets in how dire a foe.
What though the garden in one glance appears?
Winter will come and all her leaves will go.
We do not know what skeleton endures.
Carry at least her parasites below.
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