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The Butterfly

THE Butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
 As do the bee and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want,
 A wise and cautious hoard.

My youth is but a summer's day:
Then like the bee and ant I'll lay
 A store of learning by;
And though from flower to flower I rove,
My stock of wisdom I'll improve
 Nor be a butterfly.

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