Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt (1836 – 1919)
American poet from Kentucky.
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If this be all, for which I've listened long,
Oh, spirit of the dew!
You did not sing to Shelley such a song
As Shelley sung to you.
This was your butterfly, you see—
His fine wings made him vain:
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain.—
My pretty boy says, “Let him be
Only a worm again!
My mother says I must not pass
Too near that glass;
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With a red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know.
There stretch'd a sleeping army. One by one,
They took their places until thousands met;
No leader's stars flash'd on before, and none
Lean'd on his sword or stagger'd with his gun --
I wonder if their feet have rested yet!
Other suns will shine as golden,
Other skies be just as blue;
Other south winds blow as softly,
Gently drinking up the dew.
All the glories of the sunset,
In the sunrise one may see;
That which others call the dawning
Is the night for you and me.
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