Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too, <br />And the daft sun-assaulter, he <br />That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead: <br />Save only me <br />(Nor is it sad to thee!) <br />Save only me <br />There is none left to mourn thee in the fields. <br />The gray grass is not dappled with the snow; <br />Its two banks have not shut upon the river; <br />But it is long ago- <br />It seems forever- <br />Since first I saw thee glance, <br />With all the dazzling other ones, <br />In airy dalliance, <br />Precipitate in love, <br />Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above, <br />Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance. <br />When that was, the soft mist <br />Of my regret hung not on all the land, <br />And I was glad for thee, <br />And glad for me, I wist. <br />Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high, <br />That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind, <br />With those great careless wings, <br />Nor yet did I. <br />And there were other things: <br />It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp: <br />Then fearful he had let thee win <br />Too far beyond him to be gathered in, <br />Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle grasp. <br />Ah! I remember me <br />How once conspiracy was rife <br />Against my life- <br />The languor of it and the dreaming fond; <br />Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought, <br />The breeze three odors brought, <br />And a gem-flower waved in a wand! <br />Then when I was distraught <br />And could not speak, <br />Sidelong, full on my cheek, <br />What should that reckless zephyr fling <br />But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing! <br />I found that wing broken to-day! <br />For thou are dead, I said, <br />And the strange birds say. <br />I found it with the withered leaves <br />Under the eaves.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-butterfly/
