The Butterfly’s Day. By Emily Dickinson

    From cocoon forth a butterfly
    As lady from her door
    Emerged — a summer afternoon —
    Repairing everywhere,

    Without design, that I could trace,
    Except to stray abroad
    On miscellaneous enterprise
    The clovers understood.

    Her pretty parasol was seen
    Contracting in a field
    Where men made hay, then struggling hard
    With an opposing cloud,

    Where parties, phantom as herself,
    To Nowhere seemed to go
    In purposeless circumference,
    As ‘t were a tropic show.

    And notwithstanding bee that worked,
    And flower that zealous blew,
    This audience of idleness
    Disdained them, from the sky,

    Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
    And men that made the hay,
    And afternoon, and butterfly,
    Extinguished in its sea.