This was your butterfly, you see—

If this be all, for which I've listened long, Oh, spirit of the dew! You did not sing to Shelley such a song As Shelley sung to you.

All the glories of the sunset, In the sunrise one may see; That which others call the dawning Is the night for you and me.

My mother says I must not pass Too near that glass; She is afraid that I will see A little witch that looks like me, With a red mouth to whisper low The very thing I should not know.

There stretch'd a sleeping army. One by one, They took their places until thousands met; No leader's stars flash'd on before, and none Lean'd on his sword or stagger'd with his gun -- I wonder if their feet have rested yet!

Other suns will shine as golden, Other skies be just as blue; Other south winds blow as softly, Gently drinking up the dew.

Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest, Worm-eaten through and through,-