II

So—­well!  How that crab writhes—­leg after leg
  Drawn, as a worm draws ring upon ring
Gradually, not gladly!  Chicken or egg,
  Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king
(Take my meaning at least) that I beg?

III

Not so!  You were ready to learn, I think,
  What the world said!  “He loves you too well (suppose)
For such leanings!  These poets, their love’s mere ink—­
  Like a flower, their flame flashes—­a rosebud, blows—­
Then it all drops down at a wink!

IV

“Ah, the instance!  A curl of a blossomless vine
  The vinedresser passing it sickens to see
And mutters ’Much hope (under God) of His wine
  From the branch and the bark of a barren tree
Spring reared not, and winter lets pine—­

V

“’His wine that should glorify (saith He) the cup
  That a man beholding (not tasting) might say
“Pour out life at a draught, drain it dry, drink it up,
  Give this one thing, and huddle the rest away—­
Save the bitch, and be hanged to the pup!”

VI

“‘Let it rot then!’ which saying, he leaves it—­we’ll guess,
  Feels (if the sap move at all) thus much—­
Yearns, and would blossom, would quicken no less,
  Bud at an eye’s glance, flower at a touch—­
‘Die, perhaps, would you not, for her?’—­’Yes!’

VII

“Note the hitch there!  That’s piteous—­so much being done,
  (He’ll think some day, your lover) so little to do! 
Such infinite days to wear out, once begun! 
  Since the hand its glove holds, and the footsole its shoe—­
Overhead too there’s always the sun!”

VIII

Oh, no doubt they had said so, your friends—­been profuse
  Of good counsel, wise hints—­“where the trap lurks, walk warily—­
Squeeze the fruit to the core ere you count on the juice! 
  For the graft may fail, shift, wax, change colour, wane, vary, lie—­”
You were cautious, God knows—­to what use?

IX

This crab’s wiser, it strikes me—­no twist but implies life—­
  Not a curl but’s so fit you could find none fitter—­
For the brute from its brutehood looks up thus and eyes life—­
  Stoop your soul down and listen, you’ll hear it twitter,
Laughing lightly,—­my crab’s life’s the wise life!

X

Those who’ve read S. T. Coleridge remember how Sammy sighs
  To his pensive (I think he says) Sara—­“most soothing-sweet”—­
Crab’s bulk’s less (look!) than man’s—­yet (quoth Cancer) I am my size,
  And my bulk’s girth contents me!  Man’s maw (see?) craves two things—­
   wheat
And flesh likewise—­man’s gluttonous—­damn his eyes!