The Butterfly
By John Charles Earle
The shell is broken—’tis the chrysalid’s grave,
The cradle of the butterfly, whose wings
Are soon unfolded and alert to brave
The breeze and dart into all nectared things.
How beautiful with countless tiny scales,
That look like down upon the wings outspread,
She ranges o’er the meads, and trips and sails
To every saccharine cup of blue and . . . → Continue Reading: Into All Nectared Things – The Butterfly



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