To A Butterfly
I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless - not frozen seas
More motionless and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wing when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
William Wordsworth (7 April 1770 – 23 April 1850) was an English romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the romantic age in English literature with their joint publication Lyrical Ballads (1798). Wordsworth's magnum opus is generally considered to be The Prelude, a semi-autobiographical poem of his early years that he revised and expanded a number of times. It was posthumously titled and published by his wife in the year of his death, before which it was generally known as "the poem to Coleridge". Wordsworth was made Poet Laureate in 1843.
You can read more if you click on his name below the poem.
