The Butterfly

O winged brother on the harebell, stay— Was God's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray— He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day.

Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! I will go back now to the world of men. Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.