A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
A FUZZY fellow without feet
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet is his countenance
And his complexion dun.
Sometimes he dwelleth in the grass,
Sometimes upon a bough
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the passer-by.
All this in summer—
But when winds alarm the forest folk,
He taketh damask residence
And struts in sewing silk.
Then, finer than a lady,
Emerges in the spring,
A feather on each shoulder—
You'd scarce accredit him.
By men yelept a caterpillar—
By me—but who am I
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!
Structure
20 lines · 1 stanza