Blue Dragonfly

Whither away, thou wingéd flower,
Instinct with tremulous light and motion?
Art thou a spirit, born of the hour,
Adrift on the breezes’ lulling ocean?
Velvety, quivering thing of light,
The incarnation of summer splendor,
Is there an aim in thine airy flight,
A thought that throbs in thy pinions tender?
Thy wavering wings translucent bear
An azure dream to a lily sleeping,—
An instant poised in the fragrant air,
And lightly into the faint heart peeping.
Once more away, all pure and soft,
With prisoned rainbows about thee clinging,
Flitting and circling, half-vanished aloft,
Then dipping low to the stream’s glad singing.
O fluttering, gauzy mystery,
Frail-winged creature, glimmering, fleeing,
Thou art but a tinted ecstasy,—
A joy with life and a tireless being.
Thou hast no purpose to guide thy flight,
Nor does thy folly demand forgiving.
Thy wings must beat with thy heart’s delight
In the glorious rapture of merely living!