In White

Robert Frost


A dented spider like a snowdrop white

On a white Heal-all, all holding up a moth

Like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth—

Saw ever curious eye so strange a sight?

Portent in little, assorted death and blight

Like the ingredients of a witches' broth?

The beady spider, the flower like a froth,

And the moth carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,

The blue Brunella every child's delight?

What brought the kindred spider to that height?

(Make we no thesis of the miller's plight.)

What but design of darkness and of night?

Design, design! Do I use the word aright?


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