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Wormwood And Nightshade

The troubles of life are many,
The pleasures of life are few;
When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,
I dreamt that the skies were blue-

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Same night you met me in the park
We laughed, told stories not nightmares
Brought you next to my heart
You know my sweater still smells like you

Jova Petr
A Little Road Not Made Man

A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.

Emily Dickinson
Blue-butterfly Day

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.

Robert Frost
The Voice Of Spring

I am coming, I am coming!
Hark! the honey bee is humming;
See, the lark is soaring high
In the blue and sunny sky,

Mary Howitt
The Congo

A Study of the Negro Race

I. Their Basic Savagery

Vachel Lindsay
In The Garden

Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.

Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low;

Adam Lindsay Gordon
Auguries Of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

William Blake
My Butterfly

Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Save only me

Robert Frost
Good Things Come With Time

Close enough the call to light,
I'd rather duck under my bed tonight.
The cold chills but the shimmers delight,
The mornings of a dark spell so right.

Az Mo
A Little Road—not Made Of Man


A little Road-not made of Man-
Enabled of the Eye-

Emily Dickinson

Very beautiful, just like a dream,
Gives us awesome things, as sweet as cream.

Nature gives us many things,

Priyadarshini Goel
Tom O'roughley

'THOUGH logic-choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,'

William Butler Yeats
The Prairie

The skies are blue above my head,
The prairie green below,
And flickering o'er the tufted grass
The shifting shadows go,

John Hay
A Science—so The Savants Say


A science—so the Savants say,
"Comparative Anatomy"—

Emily Dickinson
In Praise Of Limestone

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,

W. H. Auden
Mazelli: Canto Iii


With plumes to which the dewdrops cling,
Wide waves the morn her golden wing;

George W. Sands
'twould Ease—a Butterfly


'Twould easeâ??a Butterflyâ??
Elateâ??a Beeâ??

Emily Dickinson
Michael Oaktree

Under an arch of glorious leaves I passed
Out of the wood and saw the sickle moon
Floating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.


Alfred Noyes
The Butterfly In Honored Dust


The Butterfly in honored Dust
Assuredly will lie

Emily Dickinson
With Every Gust Of Wind

With every gust of wind,
the butterfly changes its place
on the willow.


Matsuo Basho

Oh! To be a flower
Nodding in the sun,
Bending, then upspringing
As the breezes run;

Amy Lowell
The Village Of Tayport And Its Surroundings

All ye pleasure-seekers, where'er ye be,
I pray ye all be advised by me,
Go and visit Tayport on the banks o' the Tay,
And there ye can spend a pleasant holiday.

William Topaz Mcgonagall
The Fairy

â??COME hither, my Sparrows,
My little arrows.
If a tear or a smile
Will a man beguile,

William Blake
A Fuzzy Fellow, Without Feet


A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!

Emily Dickinson

Once, in the city of Kalamazoo,
The gods went walking, two and two,
With the friendly phoenix, the stars of Orion,
The speaking pony and singing lion.

Vachel Lindsay
The Butterfly

THE Butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
As do the bee and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,

Ann Taylor
Endymion: Book Iv

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,

John Keats
The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me


The Bee is not afraid of me.
I know the Butterfly.

Emily Dickinson
The Butterfly

Do, my dearest brother John,
Let that butterfly alone.


Charles Lamb
The Song Of The Cicadas

Yesterday there came to me
from a green and graceful tree
as I loitered listlessly
nothing doing, nothing caring,

Roderic Quinn

I like the way you wear your wings.
Show me their colors,
For the light is going.

Hilda Conkling
Some Such Butterfly Be Seen


Some such Butterfly be seen
On Brazilian Pampas-

Emily Dickinson
A Caterpillar

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
still not a butterfly.


Matsuo Basho

I cannot
and I will not
No, I cannot love you less
Like the flower to the butterfly

Spike Milligan

"Arcturus" is his other nameâ??
I'd rather call him "Star."
It's very mean of Science
To go and interfere!

Emily Dickinson
The Butterfly Upon The Sky


The Butterfly upon the Sky,
That doesn't know its Name

Emily Dickinson
The Vixen

Among the taller wood with ivy hung,
The old fox plays and dances round her young.
She snuffs and barks if any passes by
And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.

John Clare
To The Butterfly.

Lovely insect, haste away,
Greet once more the sunny day;
Leave, O leave the murky barn,
Ere trapping spiders thee discern;

John Clare
Twould Ease—a Butterfly


'Twould ease-a Butterfly-
Elate-a Bee-

Emily Dickinson
The Poetic Principle (essay)

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags fails a revulsion ensues and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.


Edgar Allan Poe

Have ye seen the caterpillar
Foully warking in his nest?
'T is the poor man getting siller,
Without cleanness, without rest.

Ralph Waldo Emerson
Still A Butterfly

The twinkling star
Fiddled and fell
Into a pit
Of stagnant water.

Basneen Hudha
The Butterfly Obtains


The butterfly obtains
But little sympathy

Emily Dickinson
Butterfly Laughter

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.

Katherine Mansfield
One Sister Have I In Our House


One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.

Emily Dickinson

When I asked my mother why they were called sand tarts,
she couldn't answer me-

perhaps this ravenous curiosity causes my brother

Elizabeth Wilcox

A book which needs to be written is one dealing
with the childhood of authors. It would be
not only interesting, but instructive; not merely
profitable in a general way, but practical in a

Hilda Conkling