A hunting man, who looks for butterflies,
Is not a stranger on a new frontier.
He knows that life can kick him in the rear.
Yet must I warn, “He wants a vagrant prize.”
It may be proper to advise
A cautious view for half a lengthy year.
Some butterflies, that are beyond the net of fear,
Will disappear when beauty dies;
But, though love’s light may fail to shine,
Let not a heart, that is stricken, proclaim,
“Hurt is a portion of a butterfly’s aim.”
The Lord, for a reason, has his diurnal line.
Joy can be had, but not until the feelings pass --
A foolish man jumps, like a cat, from the grass.