My Butterfly

by Robert Frost

　　Read more at The American Literary Blog. Holger Gröschl, Celastrina Argiolus, 2003

　　THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too,And the daft sun-assaulter, heThat frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead:Save only me(Nor is it sad to thee!)Save only meThere is none left to mourn thee in the fields.The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;Its two banks have not shut upon the river;But it is long ago--It seems forever--Since first I saw thee glance,With all the dazzling other ones,In airy dalliance,Precipitate in love,Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.When that was, the soft mistOf my regret hung not on all the land,And I was glad for thee,And glad for me, I wist.Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,With those great careless wings,Nor yet did I.And there were other things:It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:Then fearful he had let thee winToo far beyond him to be gathered in,Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle grasp.Ah! I remember meHow once conspiracy was rifeAgainst my life--The languor of it and the dreaming fond;Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,The breeze three odors brought,And a gem-flower waved in a wand!Then when I was distraughtAnd could not speak,Sidelong, full on my cheek,What should that reckless zephyr flingBut the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!I found that wing broken to-day!For thou are dead, I said,And the strange birds say.I found it with the withered leavesUnder the eaves.