Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.
All the things we ever knew
Will be ashes in that hour:
Mark the transient butterfly,
How he hangs upon the flower.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you
Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.
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Comments
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oh I do love this one
Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.
we should all remeber these words -
such nice expression . . fate rules in this one . . well done !!
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Who is the one who chooses these old poems of the day?
Vincey is one of my vry very favorite poets, and I am a little stunned it was this poem chosen. I havent seen it in ages.
Good choice, thank you for featuring it.
Love,
jin -
The apparent simplicity of this is deceiving. It is difficult to get a poem to flow so easily from the tongue, make sense, and end so easily.
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