To A Butterfly

 To A Butterfly

I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower,
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless!-and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;

My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;

Here rest your wings when they are weary,

Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song,

And summer days, when we were young;

Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now.

By William Wordsworth 1807

Milo Michigan Gallery



These are images from Milo, Michigan and of the Ausable River during the month of June.

To A Butterfly

These were a few of the butterflies at the Cecil B. Day Butterfly Center.  There were not as many as usual so I did not get photos of  a large variety of butterflies.   I am not sure why the population was so low in early spring when I visited.

To A Butterfly

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

STAY near me---do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy !
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:---with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.                         

Daisy by Francis Thompson

Featuring Poet Francis Thompson (1859-1907) 



Francis Thompson was educated at Owen's College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of strange ways of earning a living. He was, at various times, assistant in a boot-shop, medical student, collector for a book seller and homeless vagabond; there was a period in his life when he sold matches on the streets of London. He was discovered in terrible poverty (having given up everything except poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to which he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen at its purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven." Coventry Patmore, the distinguished poet of an earlier period, says of the latter poem, which is unfortunately too long to quote, "It is one of the very few great odes of which our language can boast."   Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St. John's Wood in November, 1907. Among Thompson's devotees was the young J.R.R. Tolkien, who purchased a volume of Thompson's works in 1913-1914, and later said that it was an important influence on his own writing.
 

Daisy

 WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown   
    Six foot out of the turf,             
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—        
    O breath of the distant surf!—              
              
The hills look over on the South,                      
    And southward dreams the sea;           
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand 
    Came innocence and she.        
               
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry      
    Red for the gatherer springs;   
Two children did we stray and talk          
    Wise, idle, childish things.        
               
She listened with big-lipped surprise,    
    Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:     
Her skin was like a grape whose veins     
    Run snow instead of wine.      
               
She knew not those sweet words she spake,     
    Nor knew her own sweet way;              
But there's never a bird, so sweet a song              
    Thronged in whose throat all day.         
               
Oh, there were flowers in Storrington   
    On the turf and on the spray; 
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
    Was the Daisy-flower that day!             
               
Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.      
    She gave me tokens three:— 
A look, a word of her winsome mouth, 
    And a wild raspberry. 
               
A berry red, a guileless look,      
    A still word,—strings of sand!  
And yet they made my wild, wild heart 
    Fly down to her little hand.      
               
For standing artless as the air,   
    And candid as the skies,            
She took the berries with her hand,         
    And the love with her sweet eyes.      
               
The fairest things have fleetest end,      
    Their scent survives their close:             
But the rose's scent is bitterness             
    To him that loved the rose.     
               
She looked a little wistfully,        
    Then went her sunshine way—             
The sea's eye had a mist on it,   
    And the leaves fell from the day.          
               
She went her unremembering way,       
    She went and left in me            
The pang of all he partings gone,             
    And partings yet to be.              
               
She left me marvelling why my soul       
    Was sad that she was glad;       
At all the sadness in the sweet, 
    The sweetness in the sad.       
               
Still, still I seemed to see her, still            
    Look up with soft replies,         
And take the berries with her hand,         
    And the love with her lovely eyes.       

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,         
    That is not paid with moan,     
For we are born in other's pain, 
    And perish in our own.             

White Spring Butterfly

 

The white and black color pattern of the White Spring Butterfly is stunning.  It attracts the eye immediately and the green foliage in the background makes a nice frame.

Butterfly Landing Gallery I

I like images of butterflies on various objects such as statues, limbs, chairs. and floors.  The different backgrounds adds more creative interest to the picture.

Orange Slice Butterflies

 

 

Flowers are not the only thing that provides liquid nutrients for the butterfly. They will often feed on fruit, manure piles, sap, and other materials that have dissolved into water.
Even moist sand or dirt often has enough liquid nutrients that the butterfly can get the nutrients it needs. Sometimes even rotting animal flesh will provide the butterfly with food.
If you are out working or playing on a hot day often a butterfly will land on you and drink from your skin. It is drawn to your skin by the salt in your sweat. Sweat has salt, and other minerals that butterflies need.

Golden Wings Flew Into My Path

A walk in Vail Point Park still has a few butterflies swirling around.  This one was unusually large and I liked the way it tried to hang on to a small branch.  It looks so large on that slim branch but it held on.  The top image shows the sun rays reflecting the light against it's back. The wings are so delicate that the sun rays shined through the wings like stain glass and outlined the body of the butterfly down to the tip of it's tail.

Chasing a Dancing Swallowtail

Walking in the woods I am always searching for the uniqueness and beauty of the surroundings.  This Swallowtail butterfly was dancing from one flower to the next.  I tried to get as many close up shots as I could but his wings were fluttering so fast it was hard for me to catch him for a still life.

Delicate Butterfly, Why are you sitting on my knee?

Delicate butterfly
Why are you sitting on my knee?
Don't you have someplace to go?
A flower with sweet nectar,
Leaves on a lushly bush,
A breeze to sing you a song,
A delicate waltz in mid air,
Misty fountain to cool your wings.

Delicate butterfly
Why are you sitting on my knee?
We are both so still, so quiet,
No movement, like statues at a pond,
You don't make a sound,
Yet we hear noise all around,
I don't dare disturb
Or move your resting place,
Why do I enjoy your company so?

Delicate butterfly
Why are you sitting on my knee?
You are so graceful
Your touch is so light,
I feel peaceful and joy,
You selected me instead of a flower,
A special moment you grant me,
A treasury of splendor,
You have captured me!

By PL Fallin