Poems (Gifford)/Butterflies
BUTTERFLIES.
They flit about on fairest days, Bright, beautiful and free,With not a pain or anxious thought To check their buoyant glee.
But never will they brave a storm Or face a threatening ill,They never dream of good to do, Or duty to fulfil.
How idle, useless, might we deem Their pleasurable lot,But would we banish butterflies Because they feed us not?