Desgin

I find often with Frost that his shorter poems I tend to like, but his longer poems, just come off as sounding like these long rambling stories that do not even appear to be particuarly poetic, but more like prose but into the format of a poem.

It will probably not be much of a surprsie that I just adore this poem.

Desgin

found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.