The butterfly is like a flower
which moves its station every hour.
Oh,happy is he on the wing.
The vision makes me quick to sing.
The flower is open in the sun,
And to its heart, true love shall come.
The bees shall feast and fly replete
With nectar they are now full sweet.
I sing of color and of love,
Blessings that rain down from above.
I wish to be a flower too.
Ah,that the bee could but be you.
Top Posts & Pages
- Contemplated simply with the eye
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- About Kierkegaard and post Enlightment theology with Prof. Daphne Hampson
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- An age of miracles by Joyce Carol Oates
- The Death Throes of Romanticism: The Poetry of Sylvia Plath - University of San Francisco (USF)
- Ariel by Sylvia Plath