The Butterflies
Look at the butterflies! purposeless things,
How idly they float on their gossamer wings,
Over the poppies and over the grass,
Swift as the down of a thistle they pass.
Where are they going, and why are they here
In the heat of the day and the noon of the year?
They flutter awhile in the brightness, and then
They are gone from our sight, and they come not again.
And we — we are wearied with fever and frost;
Whatever we do, it must be at a cost;
We hear as we journey, the dropping of tears;
We bear on our foreheads the stamp of the years.
But look at the butterflies! beautiful things,
Before us and over us flashing their wings;
It may be, the Maker who fashioned them thus,
Has sent the gay creatures on errands to us.
Perhaps we go slowly when we should be swift
To follow the scent of the roses, that drift
Their pink snow about us, more oft we might play
And yet finish our tasks by the end of the day.
O blest are the eyes that are clear to behold
The wonderful glow of the butterflies' gold,
With leisure to follow their flight as they pass
Silently, gracefully, over the grass!
Look at the butterflies! purposeless things,
How idly they float on their gossamer wings,
Over the poppies and over the grass,
Swift as the down of a thistle they pass.
Where are they going, and why are they here
In the heat of the day and the noon of the year?
They flutter awhile in the brightness, and then
They are gone from our sight, and they come not again.
And we — we are wearied with fever and frost;
Whatever we do, it must be at a cost;
We hear as we journey, the dropping of tears;
We bear on our foreheads the stamp of the years.
But look at the butterflies! beautiful things,
Before us and over us flashing their wings;
It may be, the Maker who fashioned them thus,
Has sent the gay creatures on errands to us.
Perhaps we go slowly when we should be swift
To follow the scent of the roses, that drift
Their pink snow about us, more oft we might play
And yet finish our tasks by the end of the day.
O blest are the eyes that are clear to behold
The wonderful glow of the butterflies' gold,
With leisure to follow their flight as they pass
Silently, gracefully, over the grass!
How idly they float on their gossamer wings,
Over the poppies and over the grass,
Swift as the down of a thistle they pass.
Where are they going, and why are they here
In the heat of the day and the noon of the year?
They flutter awhile in the brightness, and then
They are gone from our sight, and they come not again.
And we — we are wearied with fever and frost;
Whatever we do, it must be at a cost;
We hear as we journey, the dropping of tears;
We bear on our foreheads the stamp of the years.
But look at the butterflies! beautiful things,
Before us and over us flashing their wings;
It may be, the Maker who fashioned them thus,
Has sent the gay creatures on errands to us.
Perhaps we go slowly when we should be swift
To follow the scent of the roses, that drift
Their pink snow about us, more oft we might play
And yet finish our tasks by the end of the day.
O blest are the eyes that are clear to behold
The wonderful glow of the butterflies' gold,
With leisure to follow their flight as they pass
Silently, gracefully, over the grass!
Look at the butterflies! purposeless things,
How idly they float on their gossamer wings,
Over the poppies and over the grass,
Swift as the down of a thistle they pass.
Where are they going, and why are they here
In the heat of the day and the noon of the year?
They flutter awhile in the brightness, and then
They are gone from our sight, and they come not again.
And we — we are wearied with fever and frost;
Whatever we do, it must be at a cost;
We hear as we journey, the dropping of tears;
We bear on our foreheads the stamp of the years.
But look at the butterflies! beautiful things,
Before us and over us flashing their wings;
It may be, the Maker who fashioned them thus,
Has sent the gay creatures on errands to us.
Perhaps we go slowly when we should be swift
To follow the scent of the roses, that drift
Their pink snow about us, more oft we might play
And yet finish our tasks by the end of the day.
O blest are the eyes that are clear to behold
The wonderful glow of the butterflies' gold,
With leisure to follow their flight as they pass
Silently, gracefully, over the grass!
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