Out of my window I could see
But yesterday, upon the tree,
The blossoms white like tufts of snow
That had forgotten when to go.
And while I looked out at them, they
Seemed like small butterflies at play,
For in the breeze their flutterings
Made me imagine them with wings.
I must have fancied well, for now
There’s not a blossom on the bough,
And out of doors ‘t is raining fast,
And gusts of wind are whistling past.
With butterflies ‘t is etiquette
To keep their wings from getting wet,
So when they knew the storm was near,
They thought it best to disappear.