The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts




Once in a garden, when the thrush’s song,
    Pealing at morn, made holy all the air,
Till earth was healed of many an ancient wrong,
    And life appeared another name for prayer,

Rose suddenly a swarm of butterflies,

    On wings of white and gold and azure fire;
And one said, "These are flowers that seek the skies,
    Loosed by the spell of their supreme desire."