Naught now remains, naught now remains but night—
Night peaceful, with the moon on field and wave!
AN EPITAPH WRITTEN IN THE SAND,
ON A BUTTERFLY DROWNED IN THE SEA.
Poor Psyche, to a Power supernal wed,
How strong a fate on this thy frailness fell!
What strange ironic word shall here be read?
Dead sign of immortality, farewell!
I sigh not that the summer fields have lost
One flying flower: who counts the butterflies?