A butterfly hovered over a flower,
In a bower,
With the joy of life at his lips for an hour.
With the rose's petals against his wings,
And the rose's perfume that steals and clings
Touching every breath with a wondrous power.
Then the Night came on, and the wind blew cold
O'er the wold.
The butterfly shivered, grown tired and old;
The rose closed her passionate eyes and slept,
While death to her lover in silence crept;
He died of a joy untold.