The poet’s vision melted into a dream.

He knew his loss, and mourned it; but it marred

Not only his own happiness, as he thought.

It blurred his vision, even of his own truths.

He looked long at the butterfly’s radiant wings,

Pondered their blaze of colour, and believed

That butterfly wooers choosing their bright mates

Through centuries of attraction and desire

Evolved this loveliness. For he only saw

The blaze of colour, the flash that lured the eye.