Can't be bothered writing an actual post so here are some poems instead...

My Butterfly

Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Save only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.

The gray grass is scarce dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago--
It seems forever--
Since first I saw thee glance,
With all thy dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a linp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.

When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.

Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.

And there were other things:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle gasp.

Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life--
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The breeze three odours brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand!

Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!

I found that wing broken today!
For thou art dead, I said,
And the strange birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves.

Robert Frost

AND

The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat,
And slender hairs cast shadows though but small,
And bees have stings although they be not great.
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs.
And love is love in beggars and in kings.

Where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords.
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move.
The firmest faith is in the fewest words.
The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love.
True hearts have eyes and ears,no tongues to speak:
They hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break.

Sir Edward Dyer

Oooo and this song because it's my favourite in the whole entire world

She's like the swallow that flies so high
She's like the river that never runs dry
She's like the sunshine on the lee shore
I love my love and love is no more.

Twas out in the garden this fair maid did go
A-picking the beautiful prim-rose
The more she plucked, the more she pulled
Until she got her apron full.

It's out of those roses she made a bed
A stony pillow for her head
She laid her down, no word she spoke
Until this fair maid's heart was broke.

She's like the swallow that flies so high
She's like the river that never runs dry
She's like the sunshine on the lee shore
I love my love and love is no more.