Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
Butterflies
E
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, “Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead.”…
The three-dimensioned preacher saith,
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche’s birth…. And that is our death!