Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart.

And many an ante-natal tomb When butterflies dream of the life to come.

The gold-barr'd butterflies to and from And over the waterside wander'd and wove As heedless and idle as clouds that rove And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow. - Joaquin Miller (pseudonym of Cincinnatus Hiner Miller),

Gray sail against the sky, Gray butterfly! Have you a dream for going. Or are you the blind wind's blowing?

With the rose the butterfly's deep in love, A thousand times hovering round; But round himself, all tender like gold, The sun's sweet ray is hovering found.

I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet.