Classic Poem

Trusting the first warm day of spring,
When transient sunshine warms the sky,
Light on his yellow spotted wing
Comes forth the early butterfly.

With wavering flight, he settles now
Where pilewort spreads its blossoms fair,
Or on the grass where daisies blow,
Pausing, he rests his pinions there.

But insect! in a luckless hour
Thou from thy winter home hast come,
For yet is seen no luscious flower
With odour rich, and honied bloom.

And these that to the early day
Yet timidly their bells unfold,
Close with the sun's retreating ray,
And shut their humid eyes of gold.

For night's dark shades then gather round,
And night-winds whistle cold and keen,
And hoary frost will crisp the ground,
And blight the leaves of budding green!

And thou, poor fly! so soft and frail,
May'st perish ere returning morn,
Nor ever, on the summer gale,
To taste of summer sweets be borne!

Thus unexperienc'd rashness will presume
On the fair promise of life's opening day,
Nor dreams how soon the adverse storms may come,
“That hush'd in grim repose, expect their evening prey.”