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 are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire


They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
--Blue-Butterfly Day by Robert Frost