Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

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.

Search for the best famous Butterfly poems, articles about Butterfly poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Butterfly poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

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 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 David Herbert Lawrence | |

Butterfly

 Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward, 
 strong beyond the garden-wall!
Butterfly, why do you settle on my
 shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe, 
Lifting your veined wings, lifting them?
 big white butterfly!

Already it is October, and the wind
 blows strong to the sea
from the hills where snow must have 
 fallen, the wind is polished with 
 snow.
Here in the garden, with red geraniums, it is warm, it is warm but the wind blows strong to sea-ward, white butterfly, content on my shoe! Will you go, will you go from my warm house? Will you climb on your big soft wings, black-dotted, as up an invisible rainbow, an arch till the wind slides you sheer from the arch-crest and in a strange level fluttering you go out to sea-ward, white speck!


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 | |

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 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.



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 Pablo Neruda | |

I Like For You To Be Still

 I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy

I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would've died
One word then, One smile is enough
And I'm happy;
Happy that it's not true


by Louise Gluck | |

Lullaby

 It is a summer evening.
The yellow moths sag against the locked screens and the faded curtains suck over the window sills and from another building a goat calls in his dreams.
This is the TV parlor in the best ward at Bedlam.
The night nurse is passing out the evening pills.
She walks on two erasers, padding by us one by one.
MY sleeping pill is white.
It is a splendid pearl; it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
I will ignore the bed.
I am linen on a shelf.
Let the others moan in secret; let each lost butterfly go home.
Old woolen head, take me like a yellow moth while the goat calls hush- a-bye.


by Louise Gluck | |

The Butterfly

 Look, a butterfly.
Did you make a wish? You don't wish on butterflies.
You do so.
Did you make one? Yes.
It doesn't count.


by Amy Lowell | |

Song

 Oh! To be a flower
Nodding in the sun,
Bending, then upspringing
As the breezes run;
Holding up
A scent-brimmed cup,
Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.
Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Blossoms hold Mines of gold Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.
Oh! To be a cloud Blowing through the blue, Shadowing the mountains, Rushing loudly through Valleys deep Where torrents keep Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.
Oh! To be a wave Splintering on the sand, Drawing back, but leaving Lingeringly the land.
Rainbow light Flashes bright Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand.
Soon they die, the flowers; Insects live a day; Clouds dissolve in showers; Only waves at play Last forever.
Shall endeavor Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day?


by Amy Lowell | |

Late September

 Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a'mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches! From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.


by Li Po | |

Chuang Tzu And The Butterfly

 Chuang Tzu in dream became a butterfly,
And the butterfly became Chuang Tzu at waking.
Which was the real—the butterfly or the man ? Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things? The water that flows into the depth of the distant sea Returns anon to the shallows of a transparent stream.
The man, raising melons outside the green gate of the city, Was once the Prince of the East Hill.
So must rank and riches vanish.
You know it, still you toil and toil,—what for?


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 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.