The garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly,
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly
All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise.
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, ‘What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store,’—
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.
Cried he, ‘My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!’
At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
‘You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!’
‘I do not want to fly,’ said he,
‘I only want to squirm!’
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm:
‘I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!
O yesterday of unknown lack
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black;
The last I saw was this,—
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.