Sunday, November 18, 2007

TO A BUTTERFLY by William Wordsworth

I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly, indeed,
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless; and then,
What joy awaits you when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard ground is ours,
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings, when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come to us often, fear no wrong,
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days that were so long
As twenty days are now.
THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY by Emily Dickinson
From cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged-a summer afternoon-
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.