We present this work in honor of the poet’s 150th birthday.
When the cricket no longer sings
And one is faced with the autumn,
One is surprised, on some grey morning,
To see the last butterfly wings.
More gold, azure, or scarlet,
Its colour evenly spread;
The ash found around it
Lost in the earth’s sandy bed.
Whence, and through which door, does it come?
Is this, in the dead leaf of autumn,
The only butterfly living,
Or, dead, midst living snow,
The slight, transparent shadow
Of a butterfly from spring, long ago?