Just checked out the end of John Clare's March in The Shepherd's Calendar. A bit melancholic. He describes various insects who come out too early thinking Spring has arrived, and come undone as a result. Here are the butterflies: And butterflys by eager hopes undone / Glad as a child come out to greet the sun / Lost neath the shadow of a sudden shower / Nor left to see tomorrows april flower. All very sad really.
With luck I'll get to see that flower tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Doubt whether I'll sight many butterflies in the month ahead, though.
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