Poetry | Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

AFTER WINGS

This was your butterfly, you see,
His fine wings made him vain:
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain.
My pretty boy says, ‘Let him be
Only a worm again!’

O child, when things have learned to wear
Wings once, they must be fain
To keep them always high and fair:
Think of the creeping pain
Which even a butterfly must bear
To be a worm again!

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