  Bright little butterfly, mounting at morning Over Love’s garden of sweet delight, Heedless of harm and the honey-bee’s warning, Bent upon pleasure, in pains despite. Gaily thou flutterest, gaudily flaunting All thy fair charms to the winds that kiss Like a soul in elysian happiness haunting New meadows of bliss. When the first grey beam of the dawn uplifting Shadows of sleep from a world of dreams, From sea-marge to mountain and meadow-land drifting, Lighted at last on thy wings’ bright gleams Kissed thee and waked thee and whispered thee hasten To herald the sun where it might not smite In the deeps of dark dells where white flowers wasten And languish for light. Thou hast bathed in the sun-flashing spray that arises From ripples that laugh on the brook’s fair face, Thou hast gazed in the mirror that Nature devises For Beauty’s delight in her own sweet grace, Thou hast basked in the heat of the noon-tide splendour When cricket piped high in the grass beneath, And the blossoms that carried thy burden so tender Were crowned with a wreath. The lily grew pale for thou passed its perfection, The violet bowed in a passion of grief, The daisy had hope of thy gracious election, The blue-bell despaired of its heart’s relief, The hyacinth spread all its beauties before thee, The marjoram blushed as it caught thine eye, The mignonette flung its sweet fragrance o’er thee— But thou passed them by. Light was thy heart and the pleasures thou scattered Were pure as the flowers on which they fell, Till the red rose sought thee and caught thee and flattered, With promise of love thou hast known too well. All the long hours till the low sun glamoured The bright blushing petals to kiss and to toy, Thou paused in thy flight, for thy heart enamoured Drank deeply of joy. The blossoms that drooped in the dark and were sighing For tidings of light thou wert bidden to tell Lay down in despair, dreading death, and yet dying And great was the grief in deeps of the dell, For thou hadst forgotten the message of morning And the work of the day thou wast given to do, For the love of the rose and the honey-bee’s scorning For thy love was true. Poor little butterfly! dying so sadly At the rise of the moon o’er the ripe-gold grain; Dost thou rue of the pleasure thou tasted so madly, Would’st thou take back thy love to take life again? Ah, no! Love is sweeter and meeter than duty, And shall hold thee in joy till thy last breath beats, Till thou liest at rest—a dead marvel of beauty Surrounded by sweets. |
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