The Freed Butterfly

by T.S. Arthur

Yes, go, little butterfly,
Fan the warm air
With your soft silken pinions,
So brilliant and fair;
A poor, fluttering prisoner
No longer you'll be;
There! Out of the window!
You are free--you are free!

Go, rest on the bosom
Of some favorite flower;
Go, sport in the sunlight
Your brief little hour;
For your day, at the longest,
Is scarcely a span:
Then go and enjoy it;
Be gay while you can.

As for me, I have something
More useful to do:
I must work, I must learn--
Though I play sometimes, too.
All your days with the blossoms,
Bright thing, you may spend;
They will close with the summer,
Mine never shall end.