A Yellow Pansy

To the wall of the old green garden A butterfly quivering came; His wings on the sombre lichens Played like a yellow flame. He looked at the gray geraniums, And the sleepy four-o’-clocks, He looked at the low lanes bordered With the glossy growing box. He longed for the peace and the silence And the shadows that lengthened there, And his wild wee heart was weary Of skimming the endless air. And now in the old green garden,— I know not how it came,— A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame. And whenever a gay gust passes, It quivers as if with pain, For the butterfly soul within it Longs for the winds again.