MAY BE SO
September butterflies flew thick
O'er flower-bed and clover-rick,
When little Miss Penelope,
Who watched them from grandfather's knee,
Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?"
And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?"
For questions hard as hard can be
I recommend Penelope.
But grandpa had a playful way
Of dodging things too hard to say,
By giving fantasies instead
Of serious answers, so he said,
"Whenever a tired old flower must die,
Its soul mounts in a butterfly;
Just now a dozen snow-wings sped
From out that white petunia bed;
"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure,
A dozen shrivelled cups or more;
Each pansy folds her purple cloth,
And soars aloft in velvet moth.
"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap
Of yellow frills to take a nap,
'Tis but that this surrender brings
Her soul's release on golden wings."
"But is this so? It ought to be,"
Said little Miss Penelope;
"Because I'm sure, dear grandpa, you
Would only tell the thing that's true.
"Are all the butterflies that fly
Real angels of the flowers that die?"
Grandfather's eyes looked far away,
As if he scarce knew what to say.
"Dear little Blossom," stroking now
The golden hair upon her brow,
"I can't—exactly—say—I—know—it;
I only heard it from a poet.