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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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Written 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.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop |

Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore

From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals, please come flying, to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums descending out of the mackerel sky over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water, please come flying.
Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing.
The ships are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing countless little pellucid jellies in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe trailing a sapphire highlight, with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots, with heaven knows how many angels all riding on the broad black brim of your hat, please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus, a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons, please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan is all awash with morals this fine morning, so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism, above the accidents, above the malignant movies, the taxicabs and injustices at large, while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears that simultaneously listen to a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer, please come flying.
For whom the grim museums will behave like courteous male bower-birds, for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait on the steps of the Public Library, eager to rise and follow through the doors up into the reading rooms, please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping, or play at a game of constantly being wrong with a priceless set of vocabularies, or we can bravely deplore, but please please come flying.
With dynasties of negative constructions darkening and dying around you, with grammar that suddenly turns and shines like flocks of sandpipers flying, please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky, come like a daytime comet with a long unnebulous train of words, from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.

Written by Matsuo Basho |

A caterpillar

 A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
 still not a butterfly.

More great poems below...

Written by William Cullen Bryant |


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.

Written by Mary Darby Robinson |

The Bee and the Butterfly

 UPON a garden's perfum'd bed 
With various gaudy colours spread, 
Beneath the shelter of a ROSE 
A BUTTERFLY had sought repose; 
Faint, with the sultry beams of day, 
Supine the beauteous insect lay.
A BEE, impatient to devour The nectar sweets of ev'ry flow'r, Returning to her golden store, A weight of fragrant treasure bore; With envious eye, she mark'd the shade, Where the poor BUTTERFLY was laid, And resting on the bending spray, Thus murmur'd forth her drony lay:­ "Thou empty thing, whose merit lies In the vain boast of orient dies; Whose glittering form the slightest breath Robs of its gloss, and fades to death; Who idly rov'st the summer day, Flutt'ring a transient life away, Unmindful of the chilling hour, The nipping frost, the drenching show'r; Who heedless of "to-morrow's fare," Mak'st present bliss thy only care; Is it for THEE, the damask ROSE With such transcendent lustre glows? Is it for such a giddy thing Nature unveils the blushing spring? Hence, from thy lurking place, and know, 'Tis not for THEE her beauties glow.
" The BUTTERFLY, with decent pride, In gentle accents, thus reply'd: "'Tis true, I flutter life away In pastime, innocent and gay; The SUN that decks the blushing spring Gives lustre to my painted wing; 'Tis NATURE bids each colour vie, With rainbow tints of varying die; I boast no skill, no subtle pow'r To steal the balm from ev'ry flow'r; The ROSE, that only shelter'd ME, Has pour'd a load of sweets on THEE; Of merit we have both our share, Heav'n gave thee ART, and made me FAIR; And tho' thy cunning can despise The humble worth of harmless flies; Remember, envious, busy thing, Thy honey'd form conceals a sting; Enjoy thy garden, while I rove The sunny hill, the woodbine grove, And far remov'd from care and THEE, Embrace my humble destiny; While in some lone sequester'd bow'r, I'll live content beyond thy pow'r; For where ILL-NATURE holds her reign TASTE, WORTH, and BEAUTY, plead in vain; E'en GENIUS must to PRIDE submit When ENVY wings the shaft of WIT.

Written by Robert Frost |

My Butterfly

 Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Saave only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.
The gray grass is scarce 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 thy dazzling other ones, In airy dalliance, Precipitate in love, Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above, Like a linp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.
When that was, the soft mist Of 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 othe rthings: It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp: Then fearful he had let thee win Too far beyond him to be gathered in, Santched thee, o'ereager, with ungentle gasp.
Ah! I remember me How once conspiracy was rife Against 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 distraught And could not speak, Sidelong, full on my cheek, What should that reckless zephyr fling But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing! I found that wing broken today! For thou art dead, I said, And the strang birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves Under the eaves.

Written by Robert Frost |

Fragmentary Blue

 Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.

Written by Andrei Voznesensky |


 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

Written by Diane Wakoski |

This Beautiful Black Marriage

 Photograph negative
her black arm: a diving porpoise,
sprawled across the ice-banked pillow.
Head: a sheet of falling water.
Her legs: icicle branches breaking into light.
This woman, photographed sleeping.
The man, making the photograph in the acid pan of his brain.
Sleep stain them both, as if cloudy semen rubbed shiningly over the surface will be used to develop their images.
on the desert the porpoises curl up, their skeleton teeth are bared by parched lips; her sleeping feet trod on scarabs, holding the names of the dead tight in the steady breathing.
This man and woman have married and travel reciting chanting names of missing objects.
They enter a pyramid.
A black butterfly covers the doorway like a cobweb, folds around her body, the snake of its body closing her lips.
her breasts are stone stairs.
She calls the name, "Isis," and waits for the white face to appear.
No one walks in these pyramids at night.
No one walks during the day.
You walk in that negative time, the woman's presence filling up the space as if she were incense; man walks down the crevices and hills of her body.
Sounds of the black marriage are ritual sounds.
Of the porpoises dying on the desert.
The butterfly curtaining the body, The snake filling the mouth.
The sounds of all the parts coming together in this one place, the desert pyramid, built with the clean historical ugliness of men dying at work.
If you imagine, friend, that I do not have those black serpents in the pit of my body, that I am not crushed in fragments by the tough butterfly wing broken and crumpled like a black silk stocking, if you imagine that my body is not blackened burned wood, then you imagine a false woman.
This marriage could not change me.
Could not change my life.
Not is it that different from any other marriage.
They are all filled with desert journeys, with Isis who hold us in her terror, with Horus who will not let us see the parts of his body joined but must make us witness them in dark corners, in bloody confusion; and yet this black marriage, as you call it, has its own beauty.
As the black cat with its rich fur stretched and gliding smoothly down the tree trunks.
Or the shining black obsidian pulled out of mines and polished to the cat's eye.
Black as the neat seeds of a watermelon, or a pool of oil, prisming the light.
Do not despair this "black marriage.
" You must let the darkness out of your own body; acknowledge it and let it enter your mouth, taste the historical darkness openly.
Taste your own beautiful death, see your own photo image, as x-ray, Bone bleaching inside the blackening flesh

Written by Peter Orlovsky |


 Morning again, nothing has to be done, 
 maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor, maybe take a bath on the bed? Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own room-land? For this drop of time upon my eyes like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would disappear forever.
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isent? There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost, or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air, or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear - two months abused - what would the ants say about that? How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did that.
No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in a lunchenette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of flowers.
27th, 1957, Paris

Written by William Butler Yeats |

Another Song Of A Fool

 This great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster With a stark, denying look; A string of scholars went in fear Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell, Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet.
That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat.

Written 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

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written by Du Fu |

Winding River (2)

Court return every day pawn spring clothes
Every day river area utmost drunk return
Wine debt common go place have
Life seventy always rare
Through flowers vanessa butterfly deep deep see
Drop water dragonfly leisurely fly
Pass on speech time all be on move
Brief time mutual recognise not mutual separate

I come back from the court each day and pawn some spring clothing,
Every day I return to the river as drunk as I can be.
I have many debts for wine all over the place,
For men to live to seventy has always been unusual.
I see the butterflies go deeper and deeper between the flowers,
And dragonflies in leisured flight between drops of water.
As we're told, passing time is always on the move,
So little time to know each other: we should not be apart.