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A fuzzy fellow without feet

 A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!

Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!

All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk, He taketh Damask Residence -- And struts in sewing silk! Then, finer than a Lady, Emerges in the spring! A Feather on each shoulder! You'd scarce recognize him! By Men, yclept Caterpillar! By me! But who am I, To tell the pretty secret Of the Butterfly!

Poem by Emily Dickinson
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