It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
Some deaths are well-dressed
Butterflies neatly folded
Some have banners
One ragged wing banging in the wind
One by one the petals bowed
Such polite timing
We gave each its due
Now uncapped
The smiling pod seedy teeth
The old bitter-gourd
Shaking to be a rainstick
On the contrary when
You are dying you change
To prose
The family finds out who gets what
You are finally understood
Where the flowers sleep,
Thank God ! I shall sleep, to-night.
Oh, come, butterfly !
Her weapons are a smile and a little fan.
Sayonara, sayonara .
Her bent neck like that of a stork
Seeking a jewel of heart in the ground !
Her wisdom is folded sweet in her bosom.
Sayonara, sayonara . . .
Her flapping robe like a cloud
That follows a lyric of butterfly !
Her song is on her tips of naked feet.
Sayonara, sayonara . . .
Beat of her wooden clogs
Playing the unseen strings of love !
Roaming the lonely garden, he and I
Pursue each other to the fountain's brim,
And there grow quiet — woman and butterfly —
The frail clouds beckon me, the flowers tempt him.
My thoughts are rose-like, beautiful and bright,
Folded precise as petals are, and wings
Uplift my dreaming suddenly in flight,
And fill my soul with jagged colorings.
The waters tangle like a woman's hair
Above the dim reflection of a face —
He thinks those are his own lips laughing there,
His own breasts curving under silk and lace.
How shall we know our real selves, he and I,
Which is the woman, which the butterfly?
Saw this day sweet flowers grow thick-
But not one like the child did pick.
I heard the packhounds in green park —
But no dog like the child heard bark.
I heard this day bird after bird —
But not one like the child has heard.
A hundred butterflies saw I —
But not one like the child saw fly.
I saw the horses roll in grass —
But no horse like the child saw pass.
My world this day has lovely been —
But not like what the child has seen.
This great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster
With a stark, denying look,
A string of scholars went in fear
Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell,
Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet,
That is how he learnt so well
To take the roses for his meat.
Bright shower of lambent butterflies,
Soft cloud of murmuring bees,
O fragile storm of sighing leaves
Adrift upon the breeze !
Wild birds with eager wings outspread
To seek an alien sky.
Sweet comrades of a lyric spring.
My little songs, good-bye !
If pleasures be mine
As aeons and aeons roll by,
Why should I repine
That under some future sky
I may live as butterfly ?
Aimless petal of the wind,
Spinning gently weird circles,
To the flowers underneath
You are a drunken king of motion;
To the plunging winds above
You are momentary indecision.
Aimless petal of the wind,
Waver carelessly against this June.
The universe, like you, is but
The drowsy arm of stillness
Spinning gently weird circles in his sleep.
In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: “Do not eat the poor butterfly.”
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of the plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.
My stiff-spread arms
Break into sudden gesture;
My feet seize upon the rhythm;
My hands drag it upwards:
Thus I create the dance.
I drink of the red bowl of the sunlight:
I swim through seas of rain:
I dig my toes into earth:
I taste the smack of the wind:
I am myself:
I live.
The temples of the gods are forgotten or in ruins:
Professors are still arguing about the past and the future:
I am sick of reading marginal notes on life,
I am weary of following false banners:
I desire nothing more intensely or completely than this present;