Poems (Curwen)/To Butterflies in December

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To Butterflies in December.
Frail children of the Summer fair,     What do ye here, In Winter, when the trees are bare,     And days are drear?
The flow'rs are dead in field and bow'r,     In wood and dell; Why come at this untimely hour     From out your shell?
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Nay, do not beat those fragile wings     Against the pane; Do ye not hear, ye beauteous things,     The wind and rain?
I cannot, dare not, set ye free     In such a storm; Stay here, in safety, with me,—    This room is warm.
And tell me whence ye came, and why     In Winter's gloom, Symbols of immortality,     Fresh from your tomb?
Whose voice awoke ye from your trance     Invisible? Was it the great Creator's glance     That broke the spell?
And do ye come at His command     To strengthen faith, With promise of a Summer land,     Of life, not death?
We do not die, we only leave     With mother Earth The husk in which Divinity doth weave     Our second birth.
Thus do I read the messages ye bring     In Winter's gloom, Fair harbingers of an Eternal Spring,     Beyond the tomb.
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