Design
 (1936) -- Robert Frost
      I 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.