"Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way."
Five Rules of Buddha.
I watch you through the garden walks,
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!
Across the room in loops of flight
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of "blind Mæonides"—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!
You pause, you poise, you circle up
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
You wind anon, a breathing-while,
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?
Away! Her thoughts are not as thine.
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One!
Away! Tempt not the best of wives;
Let not thy garish wing
Come fluttering our Autumn lives
With truant dreams of Spring!
Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;"
Be Buddha's law obeyed;
Lest Betty's undiscerning hand
Should slay ... a future Praed!
THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS.
Monsieur the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face,—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,"
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool,
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.