The poem
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, Frail pale wings for the winds to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see Fly.
Here and there may a chance-caught eye Note in a score of you twain or three Brighter or darker of tinge or dye.
Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a low long sigh: All to the haven where each would be Fly.