LXXVIII.
THE BUTTERFLY.
‘Animula vagula, blandula
Quae nunc abibis in loca?’
I.
Thou that art on the flowers,
Pure flickering of whiteness:
At the first touch of showers
Quick veiling thy brightness:
In the gray clear of morning,
In its freshness I found thee,
The white speck adorning
Red roses around thee.
What spirit had brought thee,
What breeze borne thee hither?
In vain I besought thee,
Whence was it, and whither?
II.
The great Sun in his power
High over us blazing,
From bud, leaf, and flower,
Faint odours is raising:
Yet thou stay'st not thy ranging,
Thy rovings unceasing,
Their sweets interchanging,
Their treasures releasing.
Not in vain have I sought thee:
What breeze bore thee hither?
What spirit hath brought thee,
Whence was it, and whither?
III.
'Tis thine o'er the roses
To dart and to hover,
Till day's palace closes,
Till sunlight is over.
Where dost thou betake thee
What flower is thy hiding?
To rest, till morn wake thee,
Or for endless abiding?
Will thy Soul yet renew her
In fresh forms of brightness?
Will grim Death pursue her,
And weigh down her lightness?
Once immortal I thought thee—
What breeze bore thee hither?
What spirit hath brought thee—
Whence was it, and whither?
