Mariposa
L. Steele
Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.
All the things we ever knew
Will be ashes in that hour.
Mark the transient butterfly,
How he hangs upon a flower.
Suffer me to take your hand,
Suffer me to cherish you
Till the dawn is in the sky,
Whether I be false or true.
Death comes in a day or two.