The gold-barrd butterflies to and fro And over the waterside wanderd and wove As heedless and idle as clouds that rove And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow. Joaquin MillerSongs of the Sun-Lands. Isles of the Amazons. Pt. III. St. 41.
Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bringst, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart. WordsworthTo a Butterfly.