Poems And Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

It was upon a summer eve,
When slowly sank the sun,
When gowans, faulding, seemed to grieve
That day was nearly done,
A butterfly, in silken pride,
Passed fluttering o'er a green hill-side.

A father and his child were there,
A prattling joyous thing,
As innocent, as sweet, and fair
As any flower of spring.
The silken fluttering thing she spied,
And, “Father, I will catch't!” she cried.

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Then sped her little feet—in vain;
Her grasp eluding still,
It flew at length across the plain,
And left her on the hill;
And then, poor venturous thing! she found
A host of thistles bristling round.

At every step she took, their spears
Her naked feet assailed;
Her rosy cheeks were wet with tears,
For soon her courage failed:
And then she cried, “Oh, father, come!
'Tis thistles—come and take me home.”

Her father heard, and went—“My child,
Sedately he begun,
“Thus are the young and old beguiled
Who after pleasure run:
For pleasure's but a butterfly,
And often leads where thistles lie.”