From Cocoon Forth A Butterfly As Lady From Her Door Emerged -- A Summer Afternoon -- Repairing Everywhere, Without Design, That I Could Trace, Except To Stray Abroad On Miscellaneous Enterprise The Clovers Understood. Her Pretty Parasol Was Seen Contracting In A Field Where Men Made Hay, Then Struggling Hard With An Opposing Cloud, Where Parties, Phantom As Herself, To Nowhere Seemed To Go In Purposeless Circumference, As 'T Were A Tropic Show. And Notwithstanding Bee That Worked, And Flower That Zealous Blew, This Audience Of Idleness Disdained Them, From The Sky, Till Sundown Crept, A Steady Tide, And Men That Made The Hay, And Afternoon, And Butterfly, Extinguished In Its Sea.