Epitaph to Instinct

To all those who have studied Fabre

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O bug squashed and spread upon my wall
What lack of knowledge hath brought to thee thy fall
Was thy instinct's skill e'er so small
That men should kill without thought
Or question of what made the so?

On Music

Sorrowful music cleanses the soul;
Storms of teardrops unnumbered
Over sweetness untold
When the clouds break,
And our tears flow away;
They leave behind the blossoms
Of the meadows of May.