  Little pretty butterfly, Fluttering ’mid the flowers, Thou must live so happily Through thy life’s short hours. Little pretty butterfly, Where the flowers are blowing, Where the pretty song-birds sing, Where the trees are growing; There we see thy bright wings burn, Fluttering free from sorrow: Ne’er a task hast thou to learn, To be said tomorrow. Through the glad warm summer, Fluttering on thy way, With no thought or trouble For a future day. But when comes the autumn, Thy short life is o’er, In the wintry gardens Thou art seen no more. Fluttering on in lightness, Soon thy life is past, Vanished in its brightness— Bright things do not last. Flower Cooking
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