The Butterfly

I saw a little four-year-old

Out in the grass at play:

He watched a little patch of sun

That came and danced away.

And suddenly his eyes lit up,

He gave a little cry

And clapped his hands in wild de-

light--

He saw a butterfly.

He followed it and tried to catch 

The wonder in his hands;

It flitted on ahead of him

Across the clover-lands.

Again and yet again he tried,

It always flew away,

And let him lonely when the sun

Had vanished from the day.

And through the night the little

lad

Would clutch his hands and cry

Out from his dreams, "Oh, come

to me,

Bright little butterfly."

And this is life with you and me,

Children we are who run

To chase some wonder-spangled

thing

That glistens in the sun.

And when night comes out empty

hands

Clutch at glad dreams that

creep

Up through the silence and the

dark

to shine across our sleep.

* * * *

A baby wishes to kiss this monarch butterfly; she is so sweet.