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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 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 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

More great poems below...

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 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 Matsuo Basho |

A caterpillar

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

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 Robert Frost |

Blue-Butterfly Day

 It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.

Written by David Lehman |

Twelfth Night

 His first infidelity was a mistake, but not as big
As her false pregnancy.
Later, the boy found out He was born three months earlier than the date On his birth certificate, which had turned into A marriage license in his hands.
Had he been trapped In a net, like a moth mistaken for a butterfly? And why did she--what was in it for her? It took him all this time to figure it out.
The barroom boast, "I never had to pay for it," Is bogus if marriage is a religious institution On the operating model of a nineteenth-century factory.
On the other hand, women's lot was no worse then Than it is now.
The division of labor made sense In theories developed by college boys in jeans Who grasped the logic their fathers had used To seduce women and deceive themselves.
The pattern repeats itself, the same events In a different order obeying the conventions of A popular genre.
Winter on a desolate beach.
Spring While there's snow still on the balcony and, In the window, a plane flies over the warehouse.
The panic is gone.
But the pain remains.
And the apple, The knife, and the honey are months away.

Written by Emily Dickinson |

One Sister have I in our house

 One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There's only one recorded, But both belong to me.
One came the road that I came -- And wore my last year's gown -- The other, as a bird her nest, Builded our hearts among.
She did not sing as we did -- It was a different tune -- Herself to her a music As Bumble bee of June.
Today is far from Childhood -- But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter -- Which shortened all the miles -- And still her hum The years among, Deceives the Butterfly; Still in her Eye The Violets lie Mouldered this many May.
I spilt the dew -- But took the morn -- I chose this single star From out the wide night's numbers -- Sue - forevermore!

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 Rudyard Kipling |

Pagett M.P.

 The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where eath tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad.
Pagett, M.
, was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith -- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.
March came in with the koil.
Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay.
" March went out with the roses.
"Where is your heat?" said he.
"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.
April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, -- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and mumpy-hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.
May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever --slight, but he called it severe.
Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat -- Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart.
He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid," But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.
July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear.
'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.
We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.
And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.

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 Alec Derwent (A D) Hope |


 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.