Classic Poem

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.

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.