Power, alas! nought but misery brings!
I’d be a Butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rock’d in a rose when the nightingale sings!
What, though you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day:
Surely ’tis better when summer is over
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Some in life’s winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay—
I’d be a Butterfly; living, a rover,