Ten years old today— And never to decay— May she aye be sweet, And at length complete, My Artena.
My Butterfly, my wondrous Butterfly, Forsaking temple great, thou choosest me, When form and burnished wings arrive—I see With joy, as ne’er before, thy glory nigh. We journey through the city, thou and I, In store and street with joined hearts and free, While men admire thy trust and amity, But wonder not in thee, nor question why.
At length thy wings bedecked with Heaven’s art, Begin to wave, as Nature planned, and east Thou farest forth with grace, but to my heart Thou ever clingest still. Fly on and feast On nectar such as men have never wrought; In thee is trust and love and, why not, thought?
[11] This particular butterfly was first seen clinging, about three feet above the pavement, to the large masonic temple in Charlotte, N. C., and was gently enticed by the author into his hand, later crawling up his arm and remaining with his new companion for over an hour.
O child of hope, why left to go astray, And rend this heart of mine? Some one knew not, nor cared what ruthless way You wend—once babe benign— Was that somebody I?
If God, with perfect heart, loved you, my child, And to Jesus likened thee— Why so favored first, now sad and wild? Who failed to love? Ah me! Was that somebody I?
One said he loved the Christ and all of his; He read the Word and prayed; Believed that one the cruel creed, “What is, Is best?” And so you strayed— Was that somebody I?
At home neglected, nowhere a faithful friend, You listless wandered on; Till fool or knave declared: “You’re bad, your end Looms dark—a criminal born!” Was that somebody I?
Despised yet more—the Christ and thee—then crime! You bore with shame the chains! Your training and your arts, in Hell’s own clime, Went on with damning drains— Great Heaven! was it I?
Did I neglect you, child, my Father’s child, I judge, and send you down? Myself at ease, while you were curst, reviled— No aid gave I, no crown? Then Christ must pass me by!
A growing mocker in a maple tree, Poured forth first notes with youthful glee; Like an untried poet born to sing, He’s proving gifts which fame will bring.
And musing on that Sabbath morn, With body weary, heart forlorn, The music of the blithesome bird Inspired my mind itself to gird