232
LINES
TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.
Creature of air and light!
Emblem of that which will not fade or die!
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,
To chase the south wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay,
With silence and decay,
Fixed on the wreck of cold mortality?
The thoughts, once chamber'd there,
Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone;—
Will the dust tell thee where
That which hath burst the prison-house is flown?
Rise, nursling of the day!
If thou would'st trace its way—
Earth has no voice to make the secret known.
