My Butterfly

My Butterfly by Robert Frost Thine emulous fond flowers are dead too, and the daft sun-assaulter he That frightened thee so oft is fled or dead, save only me. Nor is it sad to thee, Save only me. There is none left to mourn thee in the fields, the gray grass is not dappled with the snow, Its two banks have not shut upon the river, But it is long ago. It seems forever, since first I saw thee glance, With all the dazzling other ones, in airy dalliance. Precipitate in love, tossed, tangled, whirled, and whirled above, Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy-dance, when that was, the soft mist of my regret, Hung not on all the land, and I was glad for thee, and glad for me. I wist, thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high, That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind, With those great careless wings, Nor yet did I. And there were other things, it seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp, Then fearful he had let thee win, Too far beyond him to be gathered in, Snatched thee o'er eager, with ungentle grasp. Ah, I remember me, how once conspiracy was rife, Against my life, the languor of it, and the dreaming fond, Surging the grasses, dizzied me of thought, The breeze three odours brought, and a gem-flower waved in a wand. Then when I was distraught, and could not speak, Sighed long, full, on my cheek, What should that reckless zephyr fling, but the wild touch of thy die-dusty wing? I found that wing broken to-day, For thou art dead, I said, and the strange birds say, I found it with the withered leaves, Under the eaves.