The Caterpillar

A Rhyme for the Young.

There is a little Caterpillar, Creeping in a soft green burr; She’ll be a Butterfly, my child, In another springtime— But uh! Her life has been so wild, She gives me quite a shudder.

How can a little Caterpillar, Crawling in a soft green burr, Hope to live and be a Butterfly, In another springtime— But uh! My child, I love you better.

Though I should love it, if my heart, A-filling with a flutter, Could feel no fears, I should think, ’Tis in my own soft way I love it better than a flower—

Because there is a warmer end, A flutter, to conclude it by With soaring wings, to gaze above Upon the beauty— More than all the flowers. In the forest the blue sky is above, And little winged things that sing, With trembling hearts and almost breath, Cheer each other by sweet sound— The world’s softest singing ends.

But how the world can bear the sound That changeless with the bloom, Is singing softly; and yet then, The Butterfly resurrected, Sleeps in its summer’s gloom.

• Robert Southey