The Death Of A Toad

I've been farting around with Norton a bit, and I like this Richard Wilbur poem in there that shares its name with this post:

       A toad the power mower caught,

Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got

   To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him

   Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade

      Of the ashen and heartshaped leaves, in a dim,

          Low, and a final glade.



       The rare original heartsbleed goes,

Spends in the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows

    In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies

    As still as if he would return to stone,

        And soundlessly attending, dies

           Toward some deep monotone,



       Toward misted and ebullient seas

And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia^Rs emperies.

    Day dwindles, drowning and at length is gone

    In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear

        To watch, across the castrate lawn,

            The haggard daylight steer.

I thought I had other things to post, but I don't.