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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 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.


More great poems below...

Written by William Cullen Bryant | |

After a Tempest

 The day had been a day of wind and storm;-- 
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,-- 
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm 
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope and cast My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.
The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward; To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding clung, And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.
And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry Flew many a glittering insect here and there, And darted up and down the butterfly, That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair; The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.
It was a scene of peace--and, like a spell, Did that serene and golden sunlight fall Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, And precipice upspringing like a wall, And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.
I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When, o'er earth's continents and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, And married nations dwell in harmony; When millions, crouching in the dust to one, No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.
Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.
Lo, the clouds roll away--they break--they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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


Written 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.



Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.
*


Written 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.


Written 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.