On wet mornings,
cold and damp,
to the garden,
out I'd tramp,
and watch a while
with wonderous eyes,
the dew drenched fields,
and auburn skies.
And I'd seek out,
in that great space,
a silver web,
of spider's lace;
dew encrusted,
fine of thread,
in the rafters
of the shed.
And I'd reach out,
with finger and thumb,
and snatch that web,
from where it hung.
For it really is
the true nature of man
to take what we want
and destroy what we can.
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