[Butterflies]
Once in a garden, when the thrush’s song,
Pealing at morn, made holy all the air,
Till earth was healed of many an ancient wrong,
And life appeared another name for prayer,
Rose suddenly a swarm of butterflies,
On wings of white and gold and azure fire;
And one said, “These are flowers that seek the skies,
Loosed by the spell of their supreme desire.”