Poems (Curwen)/To Butterflies in December

by Annie Isabel Curwen

To Butterflies in December.

Frail children of the Summer fair,
    What do ye here,
In Winter, when the trees are bare,
    And days are drear?

The flow'rs are dead in field and bow'r,
    In wood and dell;
Why come at this untimely hour
    From out your shell?

Nay, do not beat those fragile wings
    Against the pane;
Do ye not hear, ye beauteous things,
    The wind and rain?

I cannot, dare not, set ye free
    In such a storm;
Stay here, in safety, with me,—
    This room is warm.

And tell me whence ye came, and why
    In Winter's gloom,
Symbols of immortality,
    Fresh from your tomb?

Whose voice awoke ye from your trance
    Invisible?
Was it the great Creator's glance
    That broke the spell?

And do ye come at His command
    To strengthen faith,
With promise of a Summer land,
    Of life, not death?

We do not die, we only leave
    With mother Earth
The husk in which Divinity doth weave
    Our second birth.

Thus do I read the messages ye bring
    In Winter's gloom,
Fair harbingers of an Eternal Spring,
    Beyond the tomb.