In the Jungle.
Dame Nature keeps a garden in the East, AU set with rarest plants and gorgeous (lowers, And tall stems piercing through the roof of leaves, And filled with insect swarms and painted birds. For here is Naturel workshop, where she toils ; Her gardeners are the Sun and Wind and Rain, The worm her harrow, and the insect world Her trusty carriers of the tiny seed. And those who seek the garden for themselves, And use their eyes aright, see many things :a The feathery palm-tree's crown, the broad-leaved teak, The ferns that spread their fingers in the rain, While spotted butterflies crouch underneath To keep their plumage dry ; quaint orchid flowers With Vanda's glorious blue, and climbing plants That leap from tree to tree, to clamber down In long festoons of flowers ; bright sunny glades, With dreamy pools, whore lotus blossoms float And slumber all the golden afternoon. But in the scented night, when mortals sleep And think the world sleeps too, the jungle wakes And flings its jangling noises on the air.
The humming moths that rob the night flower's store
Of wine in chaliced cups ; the chanting frogs
Like monks at evening prayer ; the deafening trill
Of mad cicadas fiddling in the trees
To make the midges dance ; the firefly thin
Who boldly holds her tiny candle up
To light her lord to bed ; the cry of birds
Like wailing ghosts ; the tiger's sudden roar
That shakes the earth and drowns the insistent noise.
The shrill cicadas play with muted strings ;
The chanting frogs lie still within the marsh ;
The firefly blows her tiny candle out
And waits in fear. Now as the roar grows faint
A myriad tittering sounds break forth again
More deafening still. Then comes the hush of dawn
When Nature folds her hands in silent prayer,
And faintly grey above the Eastern sky
The daylight grows, and then the pattering sound
Of drops distilled by Nature's cunning hand
From wreaths of morning mist, the peeping Sun
That points his fingers at the topmost trees
And turns them gold ; man wakes, and it is Day.