Phaeton

All the years I hunted butterfliesIn field and wood and laneI saw but once a phaetonPerched 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 prideOf my collectionTill time and parasites combinedFor its destruction.

But I know now that while I liveI never shall forgetThe intense and awful joy I feltWhen I caught it in my net.