The Butterfly (Sigourney)

by Lydia Sigourney

For works with similar titles, see The Butterfly.

A BUTTERFLY bask'd on a baby's grave,
    Where a lily had chanced to grow:
"Why art thou here, with thy gaudy die,
When she of the blue and sparkling eye,
    Must sleep in the church-yard low?"

Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
    And spoke from its shining track:
"I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st like a seraph sings:
    Would'st thou call the bless'd one back?"