butterflies

Make me a picture of the sun –
So I can hang it in my room –
And make believe I’m getting warm
When others call it “Day”!

Draw me a Robin — on a stem –
So I am hearing him, I’ll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune –
Put my pretense — away –

Say if it’s really — warm at noon –
Whether it’s Buttercups — that “skim” –
Or Butterflies — that “bloom”?
Then — skip — the frost — upon the lea –
And skip the Russet — on the tree –
Let’s play those — never come!

Popularity: 14% [?]

Except to Heaven, she is nought.
Except for Angels — lone.
Except to some wide-wandering Bee
A flower superfluous blown.

Except for winds — provincial.
Except by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.

The smallest Housewife in the grass,
Yet take her from the Lawn
And somebody has lost the face
That made Existence — Home!

Popularity: 2% [?]

Flowers — Well — if anybody
Can the ecstasy define –
Half a transport — half a trouble –
With which flowers humble men:
Anybody find the fountain
From which floods so contra flow –
I will give him all the Daisies
Which upon the hillside blow.

Too much pathos in their faces
For a simple breast like mine –
Butterflies from St. Domingo
Cruising round the purple line –
Have a system of aesthetics –
Far superior to mine.

Popularity: 1% [?]

South Winds jostle them –
Bumblebees come –
Hover — hesitate –
Drink, and are gone –

Butterflies pause
On their passage Cashmere –
I — softly plucking,
Present them here!

Popularity: 1% [?]

Some Rainbow — coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere –
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
Feather by feather — on the plain
Fritters itself away!

The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year’s sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees — march — one by one –
In murmuring platoon!

The Robins stand as thick today
As flakes of snow stood yesterday –
On fence — and Roof — and Twig!
The Orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover – Don the Sun!
Revisiting the Bog!

Without Commander! Countless! Still!
The Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas –
Or what Circassian Land?

Popularity: 1% [?]