  The heat of the mid-day has smitten the forest-land dumb! The mountains are closing their eyes in a languorous dream, The boulders stand stark, where the torrents once hastened to come, For Earth in her passion is wholly consuming their stream. The ardour and terror of living is rife in the air, The air that is breathless, and stranger to motion or sound, A rapture so potent it seems near akin to despair Is drawing the life-blood in mist, from the sun-ravished ground. And out thro' this region grown tense with creation's desire, Inconsequent, fragile as thistledown wafted by breeze, Two butterflies flutter, like snow-flakes that fall upon fire, Far into the flame-land, that stretches away from the trees. White butterflies, innocent-looking and soft as a sigh, In quest of what blossoms, what mystical pleasures, who knows? Close one to the other they hover now low and now high, Like thoughts that are breathed from the heart of an opening rose. Vague spirits that drift o'er the infinite tide of the earth, As jewels of foam, on the passion-torn breast of the sea, They know not the hour of their ending, the cause of their birth, A moment of time or a year, they rejoice but to be! Around them the problem of life, with its pain and its joy, Impregnates the noon with a sense of some marvellous power, Above them, grown potent with strength to create or destroy, The shafts of the sun, that have smitten and withered the flower. And still with frail bodies unmoved by the vastness of things These fairy white butterflies flutter like spirits of light, They pause for an instant, then spreading their tremulous wings, Fly into the infinite, fading away from my sight. |
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