
To a Butterfly 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 often to us, 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 as long As twenty days are now. William Wordsworth
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