All the years I hunted butterflies
In field and wood and lane
I saw but once a phaeton
Perched on a blue vervain.
Slow I crept up near as could be,
So tense I scarcely breathed,
Then swiftly swung my trusty net.
In gauze it was ensheathed.
It hung a score of years, the pride
Of my collection
Till time and parasites combined
For its destruction.
But I know now that while I live
I never shall forget
The intense and awful joy I felt
When I caught it in my net.