 | Fifty lyrical ballads |  |
27
BE A BUTTERFLY THEN.
Be a Butterfly then!—be the wildest, the worst,
Of the Insects that flutter Life's summer away;
Fly from bower to bower, as if thou wer't nurst
For no end upon Earth but to trifle and play;
Leave the labour of life to the Ant and the Bee,
While the world is so bright, what is labour to thee?
Of the Insects that flutter Life's summer away;
Fly from bower to bower, as if thou wer't nurst
For no end upon Earth but to trifle and play;
Leave the labour of life to the Ant and the Bee,
While the world is so bright, what is labour to thee?
30
Be a Butterfly then!—a mere summer day's toy,
To and fro flitting ever from smiles to repose;
Turn away from all shadows, and fancy it joy
To ramble in sunshine, or sleep in a rose:
Leave the labour of life to the Ant and the Bee,
While the world is so bright, what is labour to thee?
To and fro flitting ever from smiles to repose;
Turn away from all shadows, and fancy it joy
To ramble in sunshine, or sleep in a rose:
Leave the labour of life to the Ant and the Bee,
While the world is so bright, what is labour to thee?
Be a Butterfly then!—but the summer is brief,
And a season of tempest too soon will arrive;
When the garden has lost every blossom and leaf,
Thou wilt sigh for the sweets of the sheltering hive:
Though the winter has joy for the Ant and the Bee,
When the world is so cold, what is pleasure to thee?
And a season of tempest too soon will arrive;
When the garden has lost every blossom and leaf,
Thou wilt sigh for the sweets of the sheltering hive:
Though the winter has joy for the Ant and the Bee,
When the world is so cold, what is pleasure to thee?
| Fifty lyrical ballads | |