Richard Wilbur

The Deth of a Toad


A toad the power mower caught,
Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got
To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him,
Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade
Of the ashen heartshaped leaves, in a dim,
Low, and a final glade.

The rare original heartsblood goes, Spends on the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies As still as if he would return to stone, And soundlessly attending, dies Toward some deep monotone,

Toward misted and ebullient seas And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia's emperies. Day dwindles, drowing, and at length is gone In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear To watch, across the castrate lawn The haggard daylight steer.

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