Sunday Morning Poetry #1: To a Butterfly by William Wordsworth

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A weekly reading and discussion of great poetry.

Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Royal Highness ​By Alexander Pope 

I AM his Highness’ dog at Kew;
 Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you? 

To A Butterfly 

William Wordsworth 

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 wings 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. 

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STAY near me--do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight!
 Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! 

Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee:
 Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart,
 My father's family!
 Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I
 Together chased the butterfly!
 A very hunter did I rush
 Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush;
 But she, God love her, feared to brush The dust from off its wings. 

Wordsworth 1770 - 1850 Pope 1688- 1744