Lo! the butterfly shifts its seat
On the willow whenever the wind blows.

In whatsoever character
The book of Fate is writ
'Tis well we understand not it
We should go mad with too much
Learning there

A drowsy butterfly
With frail blue-spotted wings,
And the circling gesture
Of a scented fan
Swung by a delicate wrist—
Hovers over the weeds
At the edge
Of the garbage dump.

I deemed this ravening grief long since was slain,
But yestermorn, as I went forth to reap,
Soft in his covert stirred mine ancient pain
And rose upon me with a tiger-leap.

Three folds of the cloth, yet one only napkin is there,
Three joints in the finger, but still only one finger fair;
Three leaves of the shamrock, yet no more than one shamrock to wear.
Frost, snow-flakes and ice, all in water their origin share,
Three Persons in God; to one God alone we make prayer.

Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore,
Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master's door.

School lets out for the summer.
No need to go home right away.
Bustling are the parks and museums;
So, hurry and rent a bicycle
Just to ride around.
Start pedaling, roll down the streets!
It's soothing and pleasing to the soul, a truly dashing experience,
But my companions tease me about what a big show-off I am.

He cleaned out middens for his daily bread:
War took him overseas and in a bed
Of lilies-of-the-valley dropt him dead.

Night into the universe
Frees us from the walls of day,
And Death, into the starry All,
When ourselves have passed away.

Not endless life, but endless love, I crave,
The gladness and the calm of holier springs,
The hope that makes men resolute and brave,
The joyful life in the great Life of Things.