As down the woodland ways I went
With every wind asleep
I felt the surge of endless life
About my footsteps creep.

I felt the urge of quickening mould
That had been once a flower
Mount with the sap to bloom again
At its appointed hour.

I saw gray stumps go crumbling down
In sodden, grim decay,
To soar in pillared green again
On some remoter day.

I saw crushed beetles, mangled grubs,
All crawling, perished things,
Whirl up in air, an ecstasy
Of many-coloured wings.

Through weed and world, through worm and star,
The sequence ran the same:—
Death but the travail-pang of life,
Destruction but a name.