One afternoon of war's worst troubles,
Disconsolate on autumn stubbles,
I marked what rarely rambles by —
A Clouded Yellow butterfly.

From those appalled and personal throes
Time will dissolve the pain, one knows;
And days when direful news was heard
Be indistinct, unreal, and blurred.

Yet, every walk I pass that way,
A sunless mid-September day
Will faithfully recur, and I
Stalk that slow loitering butterfly.