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The butterfly To be
born with spring, to die with roses,
To swim on the wing of the zephyr in a pure sky, To
swing on the breast of the flowers barely bloomed, To
be intoxicated with perfumes, light and azure, To
shake, young encor, the powder of its wings,
To fly away like a breath with eternal vaults,
Here is the enchanted fate of the butterfly!
It resembles desire, which never arises,
and without being satisfied, touching everything, finally
returns to heaven to seek pleasure!
Alphonse de Lamartine,
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