My Butterfly
Robert Frost 1874 (San Francisco) – 1963 (Boston)
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.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 01, 2023
- 13 sec read
- 265 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | A |
---|---|
Characters | 225 |
Words | 46 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 1 |
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"My Butterfly" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 19 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/30879/my-butterfly>.
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