A butterfly comes and stays on a leaf —
a leaf much warmed by the sun —
and shuts his wings.
In a minute he opens them, shuts them again,
half wheels round, and by and by —
just when he chooses and not before — floats away.
The flowers open, and remain open for hours, to the sun.
Hastlessness is the only word one can make up to describe it;
there is much rest, but no haste.
Each moment is so full of life
that it seems so long
and so sufficient in itself.
a leaf much warmed by the sun —
and shuts his wings.
In a minute he opens them, shuts them again,
half wheels round, and by and by —
just when he chooses and not before — floats away.
The flowers open, and remain open for hours, to the sun.
Hastlessness is the only word one can make up to describe it;
there is much rest, but no haste.
Each moment is so full of life
that it seems so long
and so sufficient in itself.
–Richard Jeffries
No comments:
Post a Comment