Minuscula Lyrics of Nature, Art and Love. By Francis William Bourdillon |
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The Poisoned Butterfly |
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79
The Poisoned Butterfly
How should the butterfly divine,
When on the lily's crest he lit,
How poisoned was her honey-wine,—
How nevermore his wings would flit
Like flame among the woods of pine?
When on the lily's crest he lit,
How poisoned was her honey-wine,—
How nevermore his wings would flit
Like flame among the woods of pine?
How should the butterfly have guessed,
When in the lily's heart he lay,
Nor ever folded to the nest,
As blossoms fold at close of day,
How near the sun was to the West?
When in the lily's heart he lay,
Nor ever folded to the nest,
As blossoms fold at close of day,
How near the sun was to the West?
How should the butterfly have deemed
The drowsiness that fell on him
Was more than when at noon he dreamed,
Half drowsy, on the rose's brim—
So sweet, so mild his slumber seemed!
The drowsiness that fell on him
Was more than when at noon he dreamed,
Half drowsy, on the rose's brim—
So sweet, so mild his slumber seemed!
But I was such a butterfly,
Who fluttered to a flower as fair,
Nor dreamed from such delight to fly,
So sweetly poisoned was the snare:
Now, sick past help, she casts me by.
Who fluttered to a flower as fair,
Nor dreamed from such delight to fly,
So sweetly poisoned was the snare:
Now, sick past help, she casts me by.
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