The Butterfly

I Am not what I was yesterday, God knows my name. I am made in a smooth and beautiful way, And full of flame. The color of corn are my pretty wings, My flower is blue. I kiss its topmost pearl, it swings And I swing too. I dance above the tawny grass In the sunny air, So tantalized to have to pass Love everywhere O Earth, O Sky, you are mine to roam In liberty. I am the soul and I have no home,— Take care of me. For double I drift through a double world Of spirit and sense; I and my symbol together whirled From who knows whence? There ’s a tiny weed, God knows what good,— It sits in the moss. Its wings are heavy and spotted with blood Across and across. I sometimes settle a moment there, And I am so sweet, That what it lacks of the glad and fair I fill complete. The little white moon was once like me; But her wings are one. Or perhaps they closëd together be As she swings in the sun. When the clovers close their three green wings Just as I do, I creep to the primrose heart of things, And close mine, too. And then wide opens the candid night, Serene and intense; For she has, instead of love and light, God’s confidence. And I watch that other butterfly, The one-winged moon, Till, drunk with sweets in which I lie, I dream and swoon. And then when I to three days grow, I find out pain. For swift there comes an ache,—I know That I am twain. And nevermore can I be one In liberty. O Earth, O Sky, your use in done, Take care of me.