XXXI.
TO A BUTTERFLY AT SEA.
1
Slight thing of sunny hours!
Upon the cups of flowers
Folding thy wings in pleasure;
In perfume and mild airs
Fulfilling thy sweet cares,
At bright and balmy leisure!
2
What do thy pinions weary
Upon the ocean dreary,
Where their light state must perish?
Upon the summer-meads,
Where air on incense feeds,
Thou hadst enough to cherish.
3
Here, by the strong wind driven,
Ere long thou shalt have striven,
Thy grave will be the billow;
And thoughts of the green home,
Whence thou wouldst idly roam,
Shall come to thy death-pillow.
4
So Beauty's life is spent
On love's fierce element—
Her wing'd hopes fail; she dies:
So the pale Poet's dream
Faints in the waste extreme
Of life's realities.
