My heart's a yellow butterfly
That flutters down the road;
A beggar, tricksy, dancing thing
That scorns a fixed abode.
The aigrette of the thistle bloom
Becomes the swinging sign
Of merry hostelries, where I
May pause awhile and dine.
The sky is lapis lazuli
Bestrewn by clouds of pearl,—
Who would not be a butterfly
Instead of just a girl?