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Best Famous Butterfly Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Butterfly poems. This is a select list of the best famous Butterfly poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Butterfly poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of butterfly poems.

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by Emily Dickinson | |

A little road not made of man

A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.
If town it have, beyond itself, 'T is that I cannot say; I only sigh,--no vehicle Bears me along that way.


by William Cullen Bryant | |

June

I GAZED upon the glorious sky 
And the green mountains round  
And thought that when I came to lie 
At rest within the ground  
'T were pleasant that in flowery June 5 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune  
And groves a joyous sound  
The sexton's hand my grave to make  
The rich green mountain-turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mould 10 A coffin borne through sleet And icy clods above it rolled While fierce the tempests beat¡ª Away!¡ªI will not think of these¡ª Blue be the sky and soft the breeze 15 Earth green beneath the feet And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest.
There through the long long summer hours The golden light should lie 20 And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly 25 Should rest him there and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.
And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come from the village sent Or song of maids beneath the moon 30 With fairy laughter blent? And what if in the evening light Betroth¨¨d lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around 35 Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know that I no more should see The season's glorious show Nor would its brightness shine for me Nor its wild music flow; 40 But if around my place of sleep The friends I love should come to weep They might not haste to go.
Soft airs and song and light and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
45 These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part in all the pomp that fills 50 The circuit of the summer hills Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.


by Ben Jonson | |

On Court-Worm


XV.
 ? ON COURT-WORM.
  
All men are worms ; but this no man.
  In silk
'Twas brought to court first wrapt, and white as milk ;
Where, afterwards, it grew a butterfly,
Which was a caterpillar : so 'twill die.



More great poems below...

by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Merry Autumn

 It's all a farce,—these tales they tell 
 About the breezes sighing, 
And moans astir o'er field and dell, 
 Because the year is dying.
Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn.
In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing.
Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow.
The seed burs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson.
A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter.
The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses.
The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it.
Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender.
Why, it's the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Mariposa

 Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.
All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour, Mark the transient butterfly, How he hangs upon the flower.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true, Death comes in a day or two.


by Tanwir Phool | |

Haiku

Khail maiN haiN mashGhool
BachchoN ke dil ki dhaRkan
ChiRyaa , titli , phool

(Poet : Tanwir Phool)

English translation
-------------------------
They are busy in playing.
Children are very fond of Sparrow , butterfly and flower You may read more poetry (Ghazal) of Tanwir Phool at this link: http://www.
urdubandhan.
com/bazm/viewtopic.
php?f=2&t=7403


by Lady Mary Chudleigh | |

The Wish

 Remember that time you made the wish?

 I make a lot of wishes.
The time I lied to you about the butterfly.
I always wondered what you wished for.
What do you think I wished for? I don't know.
That I'd come back, that we'd somehow be together in the end.
I wished for what I always wish for.
I wished for another poem.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

MY GODDESS.

 SAY, which Immortal
Merits the highest reward?
With none contend I,
But I will give it
To the aye-changing,
Ever-moving
Wondrous daughter of Jove.
His best-beloved offspring.
Sweet Phantasy.
For unto her Hath he granted All the fancies which erst To none allow'd he Saving himself; Now he takes his pleasure In the mad one.
She may, crowned with roses, With staff twined round with lilies, Roam thro' flow'ry valleys, Rule the butterfly-people, And soft-nourishing dew With bee-like lips Drink from the blossom: Or else she may With fluttering hair And gloomy looks Sigh in the wind Round rocky cliffs, And thousand-hued.
Like morn and even.
Ever changing, Like moonbeam's light, To mortals appear.
Let us all, then, Adore the Father! The old, the mighty, Who such a beauteous Ne'er-fading spouse Deigns to accord To perishing mortals! To us alone Doth he unite her, With heavenly bonds, While he commands her, in joy and sorrow, As a true spouse Never to fly us.
All the remaining Races so poor Of life-teeming earth.
In children so rich.
Wander and feed In vacant enjoyment, And 'mid the dark sorrows Of evanescent Restricted life,-- Bow'd by the heavy Yoke of Necessity.
But unto us he Hath his most versatile, Most cherished daughter Granted,--what joy! Lovingly greet her As a beloved one! Give her the woman's Place in our home! And oh, may the aged Stepmother Wisdom Her gentle spirit Ne'er seek to harm! Yet know I her sister, The older, sedater, Mine own silent friend; Oh, may she never, Till life's lamp is quench'd, Turn away from me,-- That noble inciter, Comforter,--Hope! 1781.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

MISCHIEVOUS JOY.

 AS a butterfly renew'd,

When in life I breath'd my last,

To the spots my flight I wing,

Scenes of heav'nly rapture past,

Over meadows, to the spring,
Round the hill, and through the wood.
Soon a tender pair I spy, And I look down from my seat On the beauteous maiden's head-- When embodied there I meet All I lost as soon as dead, Happy as before am I.
Him she clasps with silent smile, And his mouth the hour improves, Sent by kindly Deities; First from breast to mouth it roves, Then from mouth to hands it flies, And I round him sport the while.
And she sees me hov'ring near; Trembling at her lovers rapture, Up she springs--I fly away, "Dearest! let's the insect capture Come! I long to make my prey Yonder pretty little dear!" 1767-9.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE DROPS OF NECTAR.

 Artist, fashion! talk not long!
Be a breath thine only song!

THE DROPS OF NECTAR.
WHEN Minerva, to give pleasure To Prometheus, her well-loved one, Brought a brimming bowl of nectar From the glorious realms of heaven As a blessing for his creatures, And to pour into their bosoms Impulses for arts ennobling, She with rapid footstep hasten'd, Fearing Jupiter might see her, And the golden goblet trembled, And there fell a few drops from it On the verdant plain beneath her.
Then the busy bees flew thither Straightway, eagerly to drink them, And the butterfly came quickly That he, too, might find a drop there; Even the misshapen spider Thither crawl'd and suck'd with vigour.
To a happy end they tasted, They, and other gentle insects! For with mortals now divide they Art?that noblest gift of all.
1789.
*


by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | |

Standardization

 When, darkly brooding on this Modern Age, 
The journalist with his marketable woes 
Fills up once more the inevitable page 
Of fatuous, flatulent, Sunday-paper prose; 

Whenever the green aesthete starts to whoop 
With horror at the house not made with hands 
And when from vacuum cleaners and tinned soup 
Another pure theosophist demands 

Rebirth in other, less industrial stars 
Where huge towns thrust up in synthetic stone 
And films and sleek miraculous motor cars 
And celluloid and rubber are unknown; 

When from his vegetable Sunday School 
Emerges with the neatly maudlin phrase 
Still one more Nature poet, to rant or drool 
About the "Standardization of the Race"; 

I see, stooping among her orchard trees, 
The old, sound Earth, gathering her windfalls in, 
Broad in the hams and stiffening at the knees, 
Pause and I see her grave malicious grin.
For there is no manufacturer competes With her in the mass production of shapes and things.
Over and over she gathers and repeats The cast of a face, a million butterfly wings.
She does not tire of the pattern of a rose.
Her oldest tricks still catch us with surprise.
She cannot recall how long ago she chose The streamlined hulls of fish, the snail's long eyes, Love, which still pours into its ancient mould The lashing seed that grows to a man again, From whom by the same processes unfold Unending generations of living men.
She has standardized his ultimate needs and pains.
Lost tribes in a lost language mutter in His dreams: his science is tethered to their brains, His guilt merely repeats Original Sin.
And beauty standing motionless before Her mirror sees behind her, mile on mile, A long queue in an unknown corridor, Anonymous faces plastered with her smile.


by Katherine Mansfield | |

Butterfly Laughter

 In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor butterfly.
" That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning The butterfly would fly out of our plates, Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world, And perch on the Grandmother's lap.


by Kathleen Raine | |

Nocturne

 Night comes, an angel stands
Measuring out the time of stars,
Still are the winds, and still the hours.
It would be peace to lie Still in the still hours at the angel's feet, Upon a star hung in a starry sky, But hearts another measure beat.
Each body, wingless as it lies, Sends out its butterfly of night With delicate wings, and jewelled eyes.
And some upon day's shores are cast, And some in darkness lost In waves beyond the world, where float Somewhere the islands of the blest.


by Oscar Wilde | |

SYMPHONY IN YELLOW

 An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay Are moored against the shadowy wharf, And, like a yellow silken scarf, The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade And flutter from the Temple elms, And at my feet the pale green Thames Lies like a rod of rippled jade.


by James Wright | |

Lying In A Hammock At William Duffys Farm In Pine Island Minnesota

 Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year's horses Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.


by Robert William Service | |

The Comforter

 As I sat by my baby's bed
That's open to the sky,
There fluttered round and round my head
A radiant butterfly.
And as I wept -- of hearts that ache The saddest in the land -- It left a lily for my sake, And lighted on my hand.
I watched it, oh, so quietly, And though it rose and flew, As if it fain would comfort me It came and came anew.
Now, where my darling lies at rest, I do not dare to sigh, For look! there gleams upon my breast A snow-white butterfly.


by Robert William Service | |

Lord Let Me Live

 Lord, let me live, that more and more
 Your wonder world I may adore;
With every dawn to grow and grow
 Alive to graciousness aglow;
And every eve in beauty see
 Reason for rhapsody.
Lord, let me bide, that I may prove The buoyant brightness of my love For sapphire sea and lyric sky And buttercup and butterfly; And glory in the golden thought Of rapture You have wrought.
Lord, let me linger, just for this,-- To win to utterness of bliss; To see in every dawn design Proof of Your Providence divine; With night to find ablaze above, Assurance of Your love.
Lord, for Your praise my days prolong, That I may sing in sunny sort, And prove with my exultant song The longest life is all to short: Aye, even in a bead of dew To shrine in beauty--YOU.


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

The Window

 In the sweet, Atlantic
Breathing of spring
My curtain's like a butterfly,
Huge, fluttering
Like a Hindu widow
To a pyre's golden blaze,
Like a drowsy Naiad
To past-window seas.


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

THE ANTIWORLDS

 There is Bukashkin, our neighbor, 
 in underpants of blotting paper, 
 and, like balloons, the Antiworlds 
 hang up above him in the vaults.
Up there, like a magic daemon, he smartly rules the Universe, Antibukashkin lies there giving Lollobrigida a caress.
The Anti-great-academician has got a blotting paper vision.
Long live creative Antiworlds, great fantasy amidst daft words! There are wise men and stupid peasants, there are no trees without deserts.
There're Antimen and Antilorries, Antimachines in woods and forests.
There's salt of earth, and there's a fake.
A falcon dies without a snake.
I like my dear critics best.
The greatest of them beats the rest for on his shoulders there's no head, he's got an Antihead instead.
At night I sleep with windows open and hear the rings of falling stars, From up above skyscrapers drop and, like stalactites, look down on us.
High up above me upside down, stuck like a fork into the ground, my nice light-hearted butterfly, my Antiworld, is getting by.
I wonder if it's wrong or right that Antiworlds should date at night.
Why should they sit there side by side watching TV all through the night? They do not understand a word.
It's their last date in this world.
They sit and chat for hours, and they will regret it in the end! The two have burning ears and eyes, resembling purple butterflies.
.
.
.
.
.
A lecturer once said to me: "An Antiworld? It's loonacy!" I'm half asleep, and I would sooner believe than doubt the man's word.
.
.
My green-eyed kitty, like a tuner, receives the signals of the world.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Joseph Warton | |

Verses On A Butterfly

 Fair Child of Sun and Summer! we behold
With eager eyes thy wings bedropp'd with gold;
The purple spots that o'er thy mantle spread,
The sapphire's lively blue, the ruby's red,
Ten thousand various blended tints surprise,
Beyond the rainbow's hues or peacock's eyes:
Not Judah's king in eastern pomp array'd,
Whose charms allur'd from far the Sheban maid,
High on his glitt'ring throne, like you could shine
(Nature's completest miniature divine):
For thee the rose her balmy buds renews,
And silver lilies fill their cups with dews;
Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes,
For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms,
Soft Zephyr wafts thee on his gentlest gales
O'er Hackwood's sunny hill and verdant vales;
For thee, gay queen of insects! do we rove
From walk to walk, from beauteous grove to grove;
And let the critics know, whose pedant pride
And awkward jests our sprightly sport deride:
That all who honours, fame, or wealth pursue,
Change but the name of things--they hunt for you.


by William Henry Davies | |

Charms

 She walks as lightly as the fly 
Skates on the water in July.
To hear her moving petticoat For me is music's highest note.
Stones are not heard, when her feet pass, No more than tumps of moss or grass.
When she sits still, she's like the flower To be a butterfly next hour.
The brook laughs not more sweet, when he Trips over pebbles suddenly.
My Love, like him, can whisper low -- When he comes where green cresses grow.
She rises like the lark, that hour He goes halfway to meet a shower.
A fresher drink is in her looks Than Nature gives me, or old books.
When I in my Love's shadow sit, I do not miss the sun one bit.
When she is near, my arms can hold All that's worth having in this world.
And when I know not where she is, Nothing can come but comes amiss.


by William Henry Davies | |

Joy and Pleasure

 Now, joy is born of parents poor, 
And pleasure of our richer kind; 
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing 
As sweet a song as joy confined.
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day And dances by false glare at night; But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks Away on blossoms its sweet hour; But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp, That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone, Whose ties are very strong, though few; But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams, Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home, With little care if others hear; But pleasure then is cold and dumb, And sings and laughs with strangers near.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Boy

 Go, little boy, 
Fill thee with joy; 
For Time gives thee 
Unlicensed hours, 
To run in fields, 
And roll in flowers.
A little boy Can life enjoy; If but to see The horses pass, When shut indoors Behind the glass.
Go, little boy, Fill thee with joy; Fear not, like man, The kick of wrath, That you do lie In some one's path.
Time is to thee Eternity, As to a bird Or butterfly; And in that faith True joy doth lie.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Example

 Here's an example from 
A Butterfly; 
That on a rough, hard rock 
Happy can lie; 
Friendless and all alone 
On this unsweetened stone.
Now let my bed be hard No care take I; I'll make my joy like this Small Butterfly; Whose happy heart has power To make a stone a flower.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Benjamin Fraser

 Their spirits beat upon mine
Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes, And when they turned their heads; And when their garments clung to them, Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
Their spirits watched my ecstasy With wide looks of starry unconcern.
Their spirits looked upon my torture; They drank it as it were the water of life; With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes, The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt, Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
And they cried to me for life, life, life.
But in taking life for myself, In seizing and crushing their souls, As a child crushes grapes and drinks From its palms the purple juice, I came to this wingless void, Where neither red, nor gold, nor wine, Nor the rhythm of life are known.