The butterfly obtains

But the success was his, it seems,And the discomfit mine.I meant to tell her how I longedFor just this single time;But Death had told her so the first,And she had hearkened him.To wander now is my abode;To rest,–to rest would beA privilege of hurricaneTo memory and me.

Because—The Wind does not require the GrassTo answer—Wherefore when He passShe cannot keep Her place.Because He knows—andDo not You—And We know not—Enough for UsThe Wisdom it be so—The Lightning—never asked an EyeWherefore it shut—when He was by—Because He knows it cannot speak—And reasons not contained——Of Talk—There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—Because He’s Sunrise—and I…

The frost beheads it at its play,In accidental power.The blond assassin passes on.The sun proceeds unmoved,To measure off another day,For an approving God.

Could so enthrall a ManAs the perusal ofHis Individual One—‘Tis Fiction’s—When ’tis small enoughTo Credit—’Tisn’t true!

Yet Man has not of all the ThrongA Curiosity.

This, is the silent endBountiful colored, my Morning roseEarly and sere, its endNever Bud from a StemStepped with so gay a FootNever a Worm so confidentBored at so brave a Root