Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/111



F I were thou, O butterfly,

And poised my purple wings, to spy

The sweetest flowers that live and die,—

I would not waste my strength on those,

As thou,—for summer hath a close,

And pansies bloom not in the snows.

If I were thou, O working bee,

And all that honey-gold I see

Could delve from roses easily;

I would not hive it at man's door,

As thou,—that heirdom of my store

Should make him rich, and leave me poor.