  I sit on my porch the long after-noon, And dream, and dream, and dream; And the butterflies hover across the lawn, In shadow and golden beam, From flower to flower they flutter and fly, The sweet of their beauty to find, And out of my dream I wake with a cry: “Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!” For the chalice of life has few sweets for me, But mostly some bitter thing, The flowers which I planted with youthful glee, So often their poison bring, And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past, With remorse for their follies and hopes, That the few joys of life so briefly do last, And the noon-day so rapidly slopes. Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care, And why should I murmur and fret, While the summer is here, and all nature is fair, And gleams mid the shadows are set? I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays, And dance with the butterflies gay, And dream little less, and enter the ways Of things which remain for a day. |
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