92 THE foctY days and now ; 



The old cocoon they at last have burst, 

 On jcrial wings they now seek to fly, 



As butterflies sail on gaudy wings, 



Flutter in the sunshine, then must die. 



This century, fogy chains were loosed. 

 And since invention can scarce be told, 



And to-day they sail on gaudy wings, 

 They do hardly seem the worms of old. 



The old fogy worm was sleek and fat. 

 And he was content his sphere to fill, 



And these butterflies they flounder too, 

 With all their gaud are but mortal still. 



They gambol midst sweets of every kind, 

 And reckless, no thought of coming storm 



Forget the tempest is sure to come, 

 Beneath flower lies the prostrate form. 



And such is life, then what doth it wot, 

 In this brief life whether crawl or fly? 



How short at best our troubled days, 

 For in the midst of life then must die. 



And the spark of life is all the same, 

 Let outside be worm or butterfl}'^, 



This vital spark is all that's worth. 

 The only part that can never die. 



The vital spark alone can stand. 

 For all else is nill, good for naught, 



The God-given spark to every man, 



Only spark of earth from heaven caught. 



Then what matter whether we crawl or fly ? 



What matter whether we sail or plod. 

 Best of all to live an honest man, 



To be the best, the noblest work of God. 



And through all times we now conclude, 

 There have lived upright, honest men. 



Not so many as there used to be, 

 But still they do turn up now and then. 



