 | Birds, Bees and Blossoms |  |
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THE DEAD BUTTERFLY.
Survey it through this little glass,
Not high its magnifying power,
But surely nothing can surpass
This beauty of a summer hour,
That lives its little day, then dies.
Look at the border of each wing:
The peacock with its hundred eyes
Shows no such rich diapering;
No silk so fine from Indian looms.
And then the feathers on its head,—
All kinds of gaudy-coloured plumes
Are every way around it spread.
Not high its magnifying power,
But surely nothing can surpass
This beauty of a summer hour,
That lives its little day, then dies.
Look at the border of each wing:
The peacock with its hundred eyes
Shows no such rich diapering;
No silk so fine from Indian looms.
And then the feathers on its head,—
All kinds of gaudy-coloured plumes
Are every way around it spread.
Frosted with silver, washed with gold,
And striped with richest rainbow hues,
No diadem of monarch old
Did e'er more glorious rays diffuse.
What was it first?—a little thing,
That came to life on leaf or stalk,
Showing no signs of gaudy wing,
That had more of a crawl than walk;
Coming from small eggs glued together,
Cased hard to stand rough winter weather.
And striped with richest rainbow hues,
No diadem of monarch old
Did e'er more glorious rays diffuse.
86
That came to life on leaf or stalk,
Showing no signs of gaudy wing,
That had more of a crawl than walk;
Coming from small eggs glued together,
Cased hard to stand rough winter weather.
Others, but grubs below the ground,
Working their way in the dark earth,
Yet in another summer found
Uprising from their grave-like birth,
To reach the beauty we now see;
To sport above the thick-leaved bowers,
In richer robes than bird or bee,
And rivalling the choicest flowers;
For such is Nature's mystery,
Worked in her chambers wondrously.
Working their way in the dark earth,
Yet in another summer found
Uprising from their grave-like birth,
To reach the beauty we now see;
To sport above the thick-leaved bowers,
In richer robes than bird or bee,
And rivalling the choicest flowers;
For such is Nature's mystery,
Worked in her chambers wondrously.
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