I’d be a butterfly, born in a bower,
	Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

Thomas Haynes Bayly.    

	The gold-barr’d butterflies to and fro
	And over the waterside wander’d and wove
	As heedless and idle as clouds that rove
	And rift by the peaks of perpetual snow.

Joaquin Miller.    

	With the rose the butterfly’s deep in love,
	A thousand times hovering round;
	But round himself, all tender like gold,
	The sun’s sweet ray is hovering found.

Heine.    

	Much converse do I find in thee,
	Historian of my infancy!
	Float near me; do not yet depart!
	Dead times, revive in thee:
	Thou bring’st, gay creatures as thou art!
	A solemn image to my heart.

Wordsworth.