Sonnet, on the Butterfly
Behold the gay-clothed Butterfly extends
Its wings to kiss each odour-breathing flower;
How fair it seems! yet when the Summer ends
'Twill drop a victim to the Winter's power,
And fall asleep in the cool leafless bower,
Bestript of beauty and of gay desire.—
Ah! Life is short and only lasts an hour,
Compared with that to which our souls aspire,
For we must from this varying scene retire,
And mix with spirits once embodied here,
When quietly laid to moulder in the mire,
And once lamented by a friendly tear!
Yes! every hour that passes o'er our head,
Bears on its wing the knell of some fond spirit fled.
Its wings to kiss each odour-breathing flower;
How fair it seems! yet when the Summer ends
'Twill drop a victim to the Winter's power,
And fall asleep in the cool leafless bower,
Bestript of beauty and of gay desire.—
Ah! Life is short and only lasts an hour,
Compared with that to which our souls aspire,
For we must from this varying scene retire,
And mix with spirits once embodied here,
When quietly laid to moulder in the mire,
And once lamented by a friendly tear!
Yes! every hour that passes o'er our head,
Bears on its wing the knell of some fond spirit fled.
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