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.
Copyright © by the owner.
