Poems (Gifford)/Butterflies

​
BUTTERFLIES.
They flit about on fairest days,
 Bright, beautiful and free,
With not a pain or anxious thought
 To check their buoyant glee.

But never will they brave a storm
 Or face a threatening ill,
They never dream of good to do,
 Or duty to fulfil.

How idle, useless, might we deem
 Their pleasurable lot,
But would we banish butterflies
 Because they feed us not?

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.