The Butterfly

O wingèd brother on the harebell, stay—Was God's hand very pitiful, the handThat wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand?Yea, knowing I love so well the flowery way,He did not fling me to the world astray—He did not drop me to the weary sand,But bore me gently to a leafy land:Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day.

Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair!I will go back now to the world of men.Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air,Yet thou hast girded up my heart again;For He that framed the impenetrable plan,And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.