The Caterpillar

Abbott Handerson Thayer,"Lunar Moth"

The Caterpillar

He crawleth here. He crepyth there
  On lyttel cat-like feet.
He weareth coats of gorgeous fur
   And lyveth but to eat.

He gnaweth lettuce into shreddes
   And, burrowing with his nose,
He tattereth half the garden beddes
   And fretteth e'en the rose.

And yet his metaphysics lend
   The creature some renowne.
In him, a super-natural end
   Is Nature's natural crowne.

For, out of his own mouth at last
   He spinneth his cocoon
Wherein he swingeth, slumber-fast,
   Beneath the summer moon;

To dream, in silken hammock curled
   Of strange translunar things;
And wake, into a finer world,
   An Emperor, with wings.

Alfred Noyes

"Lyttel cat-like feet" - that just makes me smile. And "to dream...of strange translunar things" - what a perfect way to describe the familiar yet utterly mysterious quality a caterpillar has. I like everything about this poem, including the Old English it's written in, but especially the way it takes up a small, overlooked, common creature and shows the wonder of its existence. This is what makes poetry precious. It returns us to a state of wonder and mystery. Who doesn't remember being a child and noticing something for the first time? Remember being fascinated by the path raindrops made down the window, or watching a water strider run along the pond surface - these things that we lose the wonder of after we have seen them several times, that we grow accustomed to as we grow older? This must be the magic that is talked about in books, the magic that adults miss, that they are too busy for, which makes them unable to find the way back to Narnia. I do think that, at least for me, poetry is a door back to wonder. And if that's so, how wonderful! This scrapbook is my Wardrobe. I hope you find it so as well.