Classic Poem

Sometimes about the veld I've seen,
Hitched high betwixt two thorn-trees green,
A spider's web, a lace-like snare,
That quivered in the listless air.
This gossamer-net to earthly eyes
Twinned with the full-moon as to size,
And, like a frailer moon, it shone
With frosty glitter in the sun.

This flimsiest of filmy things
Was woven in concentric rings,
Whose inner circles, deftly caught
On radiating lines, were wrought
Into a thing that dazzled thought:
For never mortal hand or eye
Could frame such faultless symmetry,
Such eye-delighting deviltry.

Oft in such web may one behold
An emerald spider, starred with gold,
Who in the snare that he hath spun
Takes a siesta in the sun;
And, ere his forty winks are done,
He dreams lewd dreams of luscious flies
And midges of prodigious size —
Grilled moths and crisp grasshopper-pies.