To a Butterfly, by William Wordsworth
Stay near medo not take thy flight!
A little l...
Butterfly Poems
To a Butterfly II, by William Wordsworth
I've watch'd you now a full half-hour,
Self-p...
The Book of Thel, by William Blake
I The daughters of Mne Seraphim led round thei...
Europe: a Prophecy, by William Blake
Five windows light the cavern'd Man; thro' one ...
Reclining Nude, by Christine Ann Clatworthy
Splashes of umber –
hints of Prussian B...
Chuang Chou and the Butterfly, by Li Bai
Chuang Chou in dream became a butterfly,
And ...
The Orient, by Albert Samain
LIFE is a flower I scarcely breathe, for pain
...
The Butterfly, by Alphonse de Lamartine
Coming with the daffodils and dying with the ro...
Metamorphosis, by Anne Deborah Morgan
Hope stirs like a diminutive butterfly
In the ...
Sweet Serenity, by Anne Deborah Morgan
Halcyon days
In lush green meadows. Ca...
The Dream of Chuang Tzu, by Arthur Guiterman
In life there's naught
That's true, but Thoug...
To a Butterfly, by C. B. Langston
Thou gaudy insect! Fickle wanderer!
Thou art a...
Wild Flowers, by C. B. Langston
My fancy's queen, the muse, one day,
Presse...
Butterfly Lesson, by C. J. Heck
Oh Mama look, a flutter-by,
her tiny hand he...
On the Way to School, by Charles Ghigna
I'll tell you why I'm tardy and I hope my excus...
Midsummer Morn, by Clara Marcelle Farrar Greene
A wondrous blue of summer sky,
A dream of fai...
Possession, by Clara Marcelle Farrar Greene
I I look upon the world, beloved,
Thy world...
Sweet Bells Jangled Out of Tune, by Clara Marcelle Farrar Greene
OPHELIA IN HAMLET. Adown the soft meadow, the...
A Flower of a Day, by Dinah Craik
Old friend, that with a pale and pensile grace...
Indian Summer, by Edna Dean Proctor
'Tis Indian Summer's richest, latest day;
Th...
Mariposa, by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Butterflies are white and blue
In this field w...
Arizona, by Elise Pumpelly Cabot
PART I: ARIZONA I MAN above himself looks dow...
Sky Lotus, by Elizabeth Coatsworth
Moon over Japan.
White butterfly moon!
The wa...
There Sang a Bird, by Francis Vielé-Griffin
Behind my father's house there sang a bird,
I...
The Reaper, by George Houghton
The wheat-stalks are heavy and white,
They sl...