I’ve watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!—not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees...
Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold,
Thou songless wanderer mid the songful birds,
With Nature’s secrets in thy tints unrolled
Through gorgeous cipher, past the reach of words,
Yet dear to every child
In glad pursuit beguiled,
Living his unspoiled days mid flowers and flocks and herds!
Thou winged blossom, liberated...
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...
A BUTTERFLY bask'd on a baby's grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow:
"Why art thou here, with thy gaudy die,
When she of the blue and sparkling eye,
Must sleep in the church-yard low?"
Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:
...
Defrauded I a Butterfly —
The lawful Heir — for Thee —
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged — a Summer Afternoon —
Repairing Everywhere —
Without Design — that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers — understood —
Her pretty Parasol be seen
...
Some such Butterfly be seen
On Brazilian Pampas —
Just at noon — no later — Sweet —
Then — the License closes —
Some such Spice — express and pass —
Subject to Your Plucking —
As the Stars — You knew last Night —
Foreigners — This Morning —
The Butterfly in honored Dust
Assuredly will lie
But none will pass the Catacomb
So chastened as the Fly —
The butterfly obtains
But little sympathy
Though favorably mentioned
In Entomology —
Because he travels freely
And wears a proper coat
The circumspect are certain
That he is dissolute —
Had he the homely scutcheon
Of modest Industry
'Twere...
The Butterfly upon the Sky,
That doesn't know its Name
And hasn't any tax to pay
And hasn't any Home
Is just as high as you and I,
And higher, I believe,
So soar away and never sigh
And that's the way to grieve —
