As I am walking on the grass alone,
A butterfly, so lovely, flutters by;
How high, now low, now o'er a mossy stone,
And now it flits athwart before my eye,
Now stops to sip some dews on blades so green,
Or flaps from flower to flower, the pollen glean.

I follow it over a limpid rill,
And round an arbor covered with the vine.
Then, lo! it plays upon the yonder sill,
And gracefully it dances in sunshine.

I don't like black that's emblem of the vice,
Nor green, the envy always it bespeaks,
Nor blue from which I seem to hear the sighs,
Nor yellow which resembles the sallow cheeks,
Nor red that makes me feel the ire and spleen,
Nor motley, as the fickleness does it mean.
I'm fond of white, the color of your dress,
That chasteness represents and virtues best;
'Tis worth a world of good, oh you I bless,
But why alone and never be at rest?