  Fluttering, haphazard things, Delicate as flowers ye fly, Wandering on airy wings, Creatures of a tranquil sky, Born for one brief, golden day, Dying ere the roses die. Butterfly of colours gay Flutter in capricious flight, Hover in thy wanton play, Gather honey of delight! Not such harvest as the bee Carries to his hive at night. Night shall keep no place for thee, Death at dusk shall mock thy wings, So our poor souls seem to me Fluttering, haphazard things. |
|
