Butterflies

Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers;  
O living flowers against the heedless blue  
Of summer days, what sends them dancing through  
This fiery-blossom’d revel of the hours?  
 
Theirs are the musing silences between
The enraptured crying of shrill birds that make  
Heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake;  
And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green.  
 
And they are as my soul that wings its way  
Out of the starlit dimness into morn:
And they are as my tremulous being—born  
To know but this, the phantom glare of day.