A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!

Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!

All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence —
And struts in sewing silk!

Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You’d scarce recognize him!

By Men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am I,
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!

4 Comments

  1. Newman says:

    Thank you so much for putting this poem up. It is so beautiful and just made my day! Oh its just a dandy poem indeed, with so many secret meanings and such delightful imagery, it makes me want to jump out of my seat and go catch one of them butterflies for myself 🙂 NEWMANNNNNNNNNNN

  2. Jemma says:

    The poem is about a butterfly…unless you decided to take it a different way

  3. Max says:

    It is not talking about a fuzzy man with no feet…it is describing a butterfly! This poem is also not a waste of time!

  4. Sandy Tree says:

    How could this man run without any feet? And how was he fuzzy? Did he have a lot of hair? I strongly suggest nobody waste their time with this poem, try reading Shel Silverstien instead, with his obsession of drawing Playboy characters.

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