The Butterfly

A BUTTERFLY bask'd on a baby's grave, Where a lily had chanced to grow: "Why art thou here, with thy gaudy die, When she of the blue and sparkling eye, Must sleep in the church-yard low?"

Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air, And spoke from its shining track: "I was a worm till I won my wings, And she whom thou mourn'st like a seraph sings: Would'st thou call the bless'd one back?"