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.