SOME BUTTERFLY FRIENDS 



dusk all the edges of the pond 

 are lighted with the white candles of 

 the clethra. Its fragrance has in it that 

 fine essence which goes to the making 

 of the nectar and ambrosia of the gods. 

 He who would sup with them may do 

 so by taking canoe of an early August 

 twilight when the purple arras of the 

 coves glow softly golden with the re- 

 flected light of the sunset's afterglow. 

 Then the coarser air seems to have let 

 the light slip from between its clumsy 

 particles, leaving its more ethereal 

 essence still clinging to a more subtle 

 interatomic fluid. 



The fragrance of the clethra seems 

 always to me as fine as this spirit of 

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