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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