A Yellow Pansy

Helen Gray Cone (1859–1934)

TO the wall of the old green garden

A butterfly quivering came;

His wings on the sombre lichens

Played like a yellow flame.

He looked at the gray geraniums,

And the sleepy four-o’-clocks,

He looked at the low lanes bordered

With the glossy growing box.

He longed for the peace and the silence

And the shadows that lengthened there,

And his wild wee heart was weary

Of skimming the endless air.

And now in the old green garden,—

I know not how it came,—

A single pansy is blooming,

Bright as a yellow flame.

And whenever a gay gust passes,

It quivers as if with pain,

For the butterfly soul within it

Longs for the winds again.