Poem by Louisa May Alcott

* * *

"I write about the butterfly,
It is a pretty thing;
And flies about like the birds,
But it does not sing.

"First it is a little grub,
And then it is a nice yellow cocoon,
And then the butterfly
Eats its way out soon.

"They live on dew and honey,
They do not have any hive,
They do not sting like wasps, and bees, and hornets,
And to be as good as they are we should strive.

1. Beds to the Front of Them
2. From Our Happy Home
3. Thoreau's Flute
4. Dear Grif
5. I Slept, and Dreamed That Life Was Beauty

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