By Robert Frost
It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these flowers are that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They life closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.