I'm a Caterpillar green,
Not the prettiest you have seen,
And my Chrysalis I enter rather loth;
Though I know that in the spring
I shall rise on feathered wing
In the costume of a fascinating Moth.

Little likeness you will spy,
With the cleverest little eye,
'Twixt your green-coated friend of to-day
And the airy form that sails
When the golden sunlight pales,
And the owl flies abroad for his prey.

Yet the same we are indeed,
Though the riddle's hard to read,
One, the Moth and the Caterpillar green;
And still stranger things than this,
Which no little one should miss,
In the Picture Book of Nature can be seen.

So I think, my little friend,
If you'll only deign to lend
Your ear to these few words that I say,
Ne'er again will you rely
For convictions on the eye,
As appearances have often led astray.