Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward, strong beyond the garden wall!
Butterfly, why do you settle on my shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe,
Lifting your veined wings, lifting them?
Big white butterfly!
Already it is October, and the wind blows strong to the sea from the hills where snow must have fallen, the wind is polished with snow.
Here in the garden, with red geraniums, it is warm, it is warm but the wind blows strong to sea-ward, white butterfly, content on my shoe!
Will you go, will you go from my warm house?
Will you climb on your big soft wings, black-dotted, as up an invisible rainbow, an arch till the wind slides you sheer from the arch-crest and in a strange level fluttering you go out to sea-ward, white speck!