From The Chrysalis. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

My cocoon tightens, colors tease,
    I’m feeling for the air;
    A dim capacity for wings
    Degrades the dress I wear.

    A power of butterfly must be
    The aptitude to fly,
    Meadows of majesty concedes
    And easy sweeps of sky.

    So I must baffle at the hint
    And cipher at the sign,
    And make much blunder, if at last
    I take the clew divine.