Classic Poem

You sit demure, a silhouette
Against the rosy-flooded west; —
See, on your skirt's soft violet,
That white-winged butterfly at rest;
How rustic Dolly's artless breast
Would flutter fast, if you were she!
She'd whisper, " One that loves me best
Is thinking now of me, — of me! "
Ah well! such quaint beliefs as those
Can't meet a scientific stare,
And Darwin doubtless plainly shows
Why insects settle here or there
Yet some of us may long to share
The faiths and hopes of simpler men;
And folk-lore tales, Miss Golden-Hair,
Are wondrous truthful — now and then!