Butterfly, butterfly, where are you going?
'Over the roses into the sky.'
Butterfly, butterfly, there is no knowing
When you'll come back again, so good-bye!
Butterfly, butterfly, summer is glowing,
But with the winter you too must die,
And your frail soul will be gently blowing
Upward to God on a rose's sigh.
Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly!
A Summer Thought
I often think that all those vast desires
For purer joys, that thrill the human heart,
Vague yearnings such as solitude inspires,
That nameless something silence can impart,
Could after all be quenched by simple things,
Whose spirits dwell within the wide-eyed flowers,
Or haunt deep glades, where scent of primrose clings
About the garments of the passing hours.