To the wall of the old green garden
A butterfly quivering came:
His wings on the sombre liechens
Played like a yellow flame.
He looked at the grey geraniums,
And the sleepy four-o’clocks;
He looked at the low lanes bordered
With the glossy-growing box.
He longed for the peace and silence,
And the shadows that lengthened there,
And his wee wild heart was weary
Of skimming the endless air.
And now in the old green garden,
I know not how it came,
A single pansy is blooming,
Bright as a yellow flame.
And whenever a gay gust passes,
It quivers as if with pain,
For the butterfly soul that is in it
Longs for the winds again!
Helen Gray Cone (19th Century)