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NATURE
VII
FROM cocoon forth a butterflyAs lady from her doorEmerged—a summer afternoon—Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,Except to stray abroadOn miscellaneous enterpriseThe clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seenContracting in a fieldWhere men made hay, then struggling hardWith an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,To Nowhere seemed to goIn purposeless circumference,As ’t were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,And flower that zealous blew,This audience of idlenessDisdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,And men that made the hay,And afternoon, and butterfly,Extinguished in its sea.
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