Butterflies delicate, butterflies blue,
Butterflies still remind me of you,
We are here for while,
Then we are gone, but not forgotten.
For we will be changed into
Something more beautiful.
Like the butterfly, we do not really die,
But shed only our outer shell.
We then, become, even more radiant,
When in our glory, with him, we shall dwell.
So my child do not grieve,
When I say good bye,
For to the child of God, death has no sting,
For we will be transformed, into new creatures,
In garments of white, while singing his praises
We are filled with His light.
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Comments about this poem (Butterflies by Melba Durham )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
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