TheSting by john clare Can you think so far when/The ants did not sting?/In shades of palms then/gifts of grasshopper wings/Slow the trail that led/down the white sand hole/over bare toes they tread/To babies below they did go. Today we lay beside the hill/dropping legs and wings/To a little boy it was a thrill/Until they began to sting./Where went the ants of old?/marching peacefully slow?/The crying boy I hold/It too hurts me so./ But the pain far deep/To know the ants of old/That did so peacefully creep/ He will never know.
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