The Butterfly

THE Butterfly, an idle thing,

Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,

As do the bee and bird;

Nor does it, like the prudent ant,

Lay up the grain for times of want,

A wise and cautious hoard.

My youth is but a summer's day:

Then like the bee and ant I'll lay

A store of learning by;

And though from flower to flower I rove,

My stock of wisdom I'll improve

Nor be a butterfly.