TO A BUTTERFLY.

Airy, lovely, heavenly thing!

Butterfly with quivering wing!

Hovering in thy transient hour

Over every bush and flower,

Feasting upon flowers and dew,

Thyself a brilliant blossom, too!

Who, with skilful fingers fine,

Purpled o'er those wings of thine?

Was it some sylph whose tender care

Spangled thy robes so fine and fair,

And wove them of the morning air?

I feel thy little throbbing heart;

Thou fear'st e'en now death's bitter smart.

Fly, little spirit, fly away!

Be free and joyful thy short day!

Image thou dost seem to me

Of that which I may one day be,

When I shall drop this robe of earth,

And wake into a spirit's birth.