Butterflies
are white and blue
In this
field we wander through.
Suffer me
to take your hand.
Death comes
in a day or two.
All the
things we ever knew
Will be
ashes in that hour:
Mark the
transient butterfly,
How he
hangs upon the flower.
Suffer me
to take your hand.
Suffer me
to cherish you
Till the
dawn in the sky.
Whether I
be false or true,
Death comes
in a day or two.
Edna ST.
VINCENT MILLAY, Second April
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