My Butterfly

Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter,
he That frightened thee so oft,

Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter,
he That frightened thee so oft,

is fled or dead:
Save only me (Nor is it sad to thee!)

Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.

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