My heart’s a yellow butterfly

That flutters down the road;

A beggar, tricksy, dancing thing

That scorns a fixed abode.

The aigrette of the thistle bloom

Becomes the swinging sign

Of merry hostelries, where I

May pause awhile and dine.

The sky is lapis lazuli

Bestrewn by clouds of pearl,—

Who would not be a butterfly

Instead of just a girl?