and maybe it was the toad and maybe it was the June beetle and maybe it was the pink and tender worm who does his work without limbs or eyes and does it well or maybe it was the walking stick, still frail and walking humbly by, looking for a tree, or maybe, like Blake’s wondrous meeting, it was the elves, carrying one of their own on a rose-petal coffin away, away into the deep grasses.
