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