her, in secret to err,
Should remember Kit with the Rose.

=The Captive Butterfly=

Good morning, pretty Butterfly!
How have you passed the night?
I hope you're gay and glad as I
To see the morning light.

But, little silent one, methinks
You're in a sober mood.
I wonder if you'd like to drink,
And what you take for food.

I shut you in my crystal cup,
To let your winglets rest.
And now I want to hold you up,
To see your velvet vest.

I want to count your tiny toes.
To find your breathing-place,
And touch the downy horn that grows
Each side your pretty face.

I'd like to see just how you're made,
With streaks and spots and rings;
And wish you'd show me how you played
Your shining, rainbow wings.

"'T was not," the little prisoner said,
"For want of food or drink,
That, while you slumbered on your bed,
I could not sleep a wink.

"My wings are pained for want of flight,
My lungs, for want of air.
In bitterness I've passed the night,
And meet the morning's glare.

"When looking through my prison wall,
So close, and yet so clear,
I see there's freedom there for all,
While I'm a captive here.

"I've stood upon my feeble feet
Until they're full of pain.
I know that liberty is sweet,
Which I cannot regain.

"Do I deserve a fate like this,
Who've ever acted well,
Since first I left the chrysalis,
And fluttered from my shell?

"I've never injured fruit, or flower,
Or man, or bird, or beast;
And such a one should have the power
Of going free, at least.

"And now, if you will let me quit
My prison-house, the cup,
I'll show you how I sport and flit,
And make my wings go up!"

The lid was raised; the prisoner said,
"Behold my airy play!"
Then quickly on the wing he fled
Away, away, away!

From flower to flower he gayly flew,
To cool his aching feet,
And slake his thirst with morning dew,
Where liberty was sweet!

=The Dissatisfied Angler Boy=

I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook;
I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook;
And wish I had staid at home with my book!
I'm sure 'twas no pleasure to see
That poor little harmless, suffering thing
Silently writhe at the end of the string,
Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing
In torture,--and all for me!

'Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout;
And when from the water I drew him out,
On the grassy bank as he floundered about,
It made me shiver