Orphic Mysteries: The Yellow Butterfly
Of all shy visitants, I love
That darling butterfly,
Whose wings are to the cornfield’s wave
A hovering reply.
Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripe
He suns with his gay youth,
And feeds me with the gold of light,
The thrice-tried gleam of truth.
When, glooming back upon myself,
The garden path I pace,
He comes and makes my gladdened eyes
The dial to his grace.
Unfailing omen, punctual sign!
No sooner am I out,
He hovers by on golden wings
To chase the grey of doubt.
All melancholy thoughts to thresh,
Winnow the blissful grain
Of immortality, and sift
From mortal fear and pain.
Day after day the marvel grows;
Ever his gladsome morn
Shines down the blackness of my grief
With glancing wings of scorn.
Now from the creeper’s bowery height,
Now o’er the garden wall;
From far-off places, or where first
The wonder did befall.
In that low bed of coxcomb flowers
Beneath her window-sill,
Her chamber-window, where he warms
Homeward my spirit still;
Or plumb-down from the soaring roof
He to my awful eye
His radiant message angels me
From azure depths of sky.
I cannot with ungrateful heart
Feel God’s fair world a blank.
Straight for the sunny thought of her
His yellow wings I thank.
I cannot still, her sight to want,
Weep like a thwarted boy,
Cry outright, but with darting gold
He chides me back to joy.
The stupor of the miracle
Ever renewed, the fear,
I lose in charmed tranquillity,
For she, my saint, is here.
Who works it? No dead relic sweet
Of her, my living saint,
Perfect beyond the skill of thought
Of fancy’s power to paint.
Whole from her suffering martyrdom
She is arisen. No tomb
Could hold her, no far blissful heaven
Allure. Her heaven is home.
No place more holy than these walks,
This garden, where the flowers
Swing censers breathing up to God,
This house a Book of Hours.
No room but memory’s sacred hand,
Gilded, illuminate,
Paints how she suffered, loved and died—
The legend of her fate.
In heaven she is; beatitude
To her; her loved ones still,
So loving she, here, here, enskyed
To guard. It is God’s will.
Here in the old sweet home where, still
A guardian spirit, she
Heals, comforts, counsels, and performs
Her angel ministry.
Manmohan Ghose.