Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt
This was your butterfly, you see,
His fine wings made him vain:
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain.
My pretty boy says, 'Let him be
only a warm again!'
O child, when things have learned to wear
Sings once, they must be fain
To keep them always high and fair:
Think of the creeping pain
Which even a butterfly must bear
To be a warm again!