A CONSERVATIVE
THE garden beds I wandered by,
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly
A-sitting on a thorn—
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I: “What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore,
With garden fair and sunlight free,
And flowers in goodly store?”
But he only turned away from me,
Cried he: “My legs are thin and few,
Where once I had a swarm;
Soft, fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform.”
At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly.”
“I do not want to fly,” said he;
“I only want to squirm.”
And he dropped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm:
“I do not want to be a fly;
I want to be a worm.”
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this—
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman.