She flew in a passion, that heightened her power;
And cuffing, and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped; then she snapped off its head.
A delicate ruin, on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went, humming, away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant, just dropped from the sky.
And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite
She has in reserve, though they're now out of sight.
Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless--without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass--to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!
=The Butterfly's Dream=
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
A butterfly gaudy and gay;
And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
The careless young slumberer lay.
For the butterfly slept;--as such thoughtless ones will,
At ease, and reclining on flowers;--
If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill
The best of their mid-summer hours!
And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
With _indolent_ lovers of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
Give fancy permission to range.
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