 | Woman, A Poem |  |
114
SONNET. THE BUTTERFLY.
Where flowerets hung reflected o'er the brook,A harmless Butterfly my path beset;
Itself a flying flower, and pinions shook,
Of starry gold, and azure edged with jet.
115
The mangled thing into a lily fell;
Nor all my nurture could its soul restore,
Nor all the dewy odours of the bell.
It died within the flower it loved so well.
Thus nymphs, untreasured of fair virtue, lie
Forlorn amid their native vales, and die.
| Woman, A Poem | |