THE FREED
BUTTERFLY.
Yes, go, little butterfly,
Fan the warm air
With your soft silken pinions,
So brilliant and fair;
A poor, fluttering prisoner
No longer you’ll be;
There! Out of the window!
You are free—you are free!
Go, rest on the bosom
Of some favorite flower;
Go, sport in the sunlight
Your brief little hour;
For your day, at the longest,
Is scarcely a span:
Then go and enjoy it;
Be gay while you can.
As for me, I have something
More useful to do:
I must work, I must learn—
Though I play sometimes, too.
All your days with the blossoms,
Bright thing, you may
spend;
They will close with the summer,
Mine never shall end.
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