  THE garden beds I wandered by, One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly A-sitting on a thorn— A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn. I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes. Said I: “What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore, With garden fair and sunlight free, And flowers in goodly store?” But he only turned away from me, Cried he: “My legs are thin and few, Where once I had a swarm; Soft, fuzzy fur—a joy to view— Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform.” At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, “You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly.” “I do not want to fly,” said he; “I only want to squirm.” And he dropped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: “I do not want to be a fly; I want to be a worm.” O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this— The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis. Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman. |
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