...fly like the dust...
THE BUTTERFLY
I am not what I was yesterday,
God knows my name.
I am made in a smooth and beautiful way,
And full of flame.
The color of corn are my pretty wings,
My flower is blue.
I kiss its topmost pearl, it swings
And I swing too.
I dance above the tawny grass
In the sunny air,
So tantalized to have to pass
Love everywhere
O Earth, O Sky, you are mine to roam
In liberty.
I am the soul and I have no home,
Take care of me.
For double I drift through a double world
Of spirit and sense;
I and my symbol together whirled
From who knows whence?
There ’s a tiny weed, God knows what good, —
It sits in the moss.
Its wings are heavy and spotted with blood
Across and across.
I sometimes settle a moment there,
And I am so sweet,
That what it lacks of the glad and fair
I fill complete.
The little white moon was once like me;
But her wings are one.
Or perhaps they closed together be
As she swings in the sun.
When the clovers close their three green wings
Just as I do,
I creep to the primrose heart of things,
And close mine, too.
And then wide opens the candid night,
Serene and intense;
For she has, instead of love and light,
God’s confidence.
And I watch that other butterfly,
The one-winged moon,
Till, drunk with sweets in which I lie,
I dream and swoon.
And then when I to three days grow,
I find out pain.
For swift there comes an ache, — I know
That I am twain.
And nevermore can I be one
In liberty.
O Earth, O Sky, your use in done,
Take care of me...))
I am not what I was yesterday,
God knows my name.
I am made in a smooth and beautiful way,
And full of flame.
The color of corn are my pretty wings,
My flower is blue.
I kiss its topmost pearl, it swings
And I swing too.
I dance above the tawny grass
In the sunny air,
So tantalized to have to pass
Love everywhere
O Earth, O Sky, you are mine to roam
In liberty.
I am the soul and I have no home,
Take care of me.
For double I drift through a double world
Of spirit and sense;
I and my symbol together whirled
From who knows whence?
There ’s a tiny weed, God knows what good, —
It sits in the moss.
Its wings are heavy and spotted with blood
Across and across.
I sometimes settle a moment there,
And I am so sweet,
That what it lacks of the glad and fair
I fill complete.
The little white moon was once like me;
But her wings are one.
Or perhaps they closed together be
As she swings in the sun.
When the clovers close their three green wings
Just as I do,
I creep to the primrose heart of things,
And close mine, too.
And then wide opens the candid night,
Serene and intense;
For she has, instead of love and light,
God’s confidence.
And I watch that other butterfly,
The one-winged moon,
Till, drunk with sweets in which I lie,
I dream and swoon.
And then when I to three days grow,
I find out pain.
For swift there comes an ache, — I know
That I am twain.
And nevermore can I be one
In liberty.
O Earth, O Sky, your use in done,
Take care of me...))