Cobwebs

The cobwebs late so finely spun
By cunning spiders in the sun,
Hang glimmering, fringed with shining rain
Round drops of molten silver form,
Flash, fall, and slowly form again,
The last, lost children of the storm. 

All down the flowerless garden walk 
The cobwebs hang from stalk to stalk. 
Full-fringed with rain: the pink is knit 
To the tall rose that neighboured it 
When June was at her height of noon, 
And skies of evening knew no whit 
Of mist that wraps the hunter's moon. 

The sunflower to the phlox is bound 
By silken chains of filmy stuff, 
Soft as the seed-sheaths underground 
Waiting till winter's skein is wound 
And Earth of frost has had enough. 

Then rose and phlox and pink shall rise 
Unchained, that now with cobweb-ties, 
Unwilling neighbours, wait the pyre 
Of dead leaves and the cleansing fire.