The Death of a Toad

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 heartsblood 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’s 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.
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