Classic Poem

Born with the spring, and with the roses dying,
Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing,
On the young floweret's opening bosom lying,
Perfume and light and the blue air inhaling,
Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing,
And fading like a breath in boundless heaven, —
Such is the butterfly's enchanted being;
How like desire, to which no rest is given,
Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure,
Returns at last above to seek for purer pleasure.