New Walks in Old Ways 



That she folded her wings on its rosy breast, 

 As if loving it better than all the rest, 

 And, spreading about it her filmy lace, 

 She clasped it close in a fond embrace, 

 Draining its heart to its deepest depths 

 Of the nectar stored through the sunny hours 

 In that billowy garden of nodding flowers; 

 Then, butterfly-fashion, flitted away. 



But there came a time as the year wore on 



When the wandering beauty paused, 



A-weary of threading the gypsy trail, 



And recalled her joy in the grassy vale 



Where the rose-red clover bloomed. 



But in vain she sought the meadow flower, 



Just to live again that happy hour. 



The sunbeams had claimed it as their own, 



And had ripened its fruitage again to be sown 



That some other bright butterfly, pink, gold 



and gay 

 Might find a rich clover bloom some other day. 



"And what became of the butterfly? 

 Did she die of remorse?" 



"Certainly not. On the contrary, 

 she doubtless lived to a good old age, 

 finding plenty of other things she 

 liked to feed upon throughout the 

 later months; and, when the frosts 



[78] 



