A TWIG where clung two soft cocoons I broke from a wayside spray, And carried home to a quiet desk Where, long forgot, it lay. One morn I chanced to lift the lid, And lo! as light as air, A moth flew up on downy wings And settled above my chair! A dainty, beautiful thing it was, Orange and silvery gray And I marvelled how from the withered bough Such fairy stole away. Had the other flown? I turned to see, And found it striving still To free itself from the swathing floss And rove the air at will. 'Poor little prisoned waif,' I said, 'You shall not struggle more'; And tenderly I cut the threads, And watched to see it soar. Alas! a feeble chrysalis It dropped from its silken bed; My help had been the direst harm — The pretty moth was dead! I should have left it there to gain The strength that struggle brings: 'Tis stress and strain, with moth or man, That free the folded wings! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGMENT THIRTY-SIX by HILDA DOOLITTLE HYMN TO ADVERSITY by THOMAS GRAY ADVICE TO A LADY [IN AUTUMN] by PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE THE WALLABOUT MARTYRS by WALT WHITMAN AN EPISTLE TO CURIO by MARK AKENSIDE THE AMERICAN FIREMAN by CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER NETLEY ABBEY; A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |