A fuzzy fellow, without feet,

Yet doth exceeding run!

Of velvet, is his Countenance,

And his Complexion, dun!

Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!

Sometime, upon a bough,

From which he doth descend in plush

Upon the Passer-by!

All this in summer.

But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,

He taketh Damask Residence --

And struts in sewing silk!

Then, finer than a Lady,

Emerges in the spring!

A Feather on each shoulder!

Youd scarce recognize him!

By Men, yclept Caterpillar!

By me! But who am I,

To tell the pretty secret

Of the Butterfly!